


Praise and Glory

by Saxifactumterritum



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Intrigue, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:34:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26293465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saxifactumterritum/pseuds/Saxifactumterritum
Summary: Porthos doesn’t slow his horse as he reaches Treville, he hoiks the child-king out of his regent’s arms in a risky move that could send him sprawling, then turns his horse, almost trampling Treville, and shields both man and boy.“Go!” Treville shouts. “I’ll hold them!”“Like hell you will,” Porthos snarlsCould Treville have survived? What then? I took serious liberties with historical figures I know nothing about and gave everyone a hundred friends in high-ish places
Relationships: Athos and Porthos are in love, Background Athos/Porthos, Background Constance/d'Artagnan, background athos/sylie, background elodie/porthos
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS (for entire fic): canon typical violence, someone is imprisoned it's mentioned for years, torture (not of the main guys, they sometimes do the torture a la canon), background of war, children/young teenagers joining in the fighting, injury
> 
> dragged this kicking and screaming out of my drafts, please do not pretend my prince de conde has anything to do with history, I think I wiki'ed the dude once when I started writing this to see how to spell the thing. Wrote it so many years ago, edited it now, hopefully you'll enjoy it

Porthos doesn’t slow his horse as he reaches Treville, he hoiks the child-king out of his regent’s arms in a risky move that could send him sprawling, then turns his horse, almost trampling Treville, and shields both man and boy.

“Go!” Treville shouts. “I’ll hold them!”

“Like hell you will,” Porthos snarls, air pushed violently out of him as something connects with his back, barrelling through his armour just below his shoulder. Adrenaline cushions him, disconnecting him from his body for the moment.

He uses his bad arm to hold the king and his good arm to haul Treville across the pommel, pushing him forwards so he’s arse up over the horse’s shoulders, already digging in his heels. He grips his two charges hard as Mercredi rears. She dashes away though, straight into a gallop, covering the land with speed and putting space between them and the bullets. He thinks they’re away when a second impact hits him low, his thigh, and he nearly falls, his muscles failing, trembling. Only Treville’s arm slung across his lap keeps him in the saddle. His arm spasms trying to keep hold of the king. He lowers his head, gripping, clinging, his strength ebbing. He gets a burst of adrenaline and a second wind as they fly towards Paris and relative safety.

They get stopped at Louvre and Porthos hasn’t got the energy to explain. He undoes his pauldron giving it over to be taken as proof of himself, and demands to see the queen, letting the guards hold him there on his horse. He keeps the king hidden in his cloak. The queen, when she receives Porthos’s uniform, comes running out without any proprietary, and Mercredi is let go; who walks gently into the courtyard and Porthos lets her meander. As soon as they meet the queen he lets Treville go, listening as the queen calls for guards and her own physician, waiting until the chaos around Treville is thickest. Then he slides from Mercredi himself, Louis XIV wrapped and hidden in his cloak. 

Standing reminds Porthos that there’s something wrong and he nearly crumples, the only thing that keeps him up is the thought that he holds in his arms the king of France and it is his only duty to protect the child. He already failed in that once today, he’s not going to fail again. He limps after Treville and heads for one of the queen’s rooms on this level. He knows his way around the palace, has been here enough, but he is not usually walking right into the queen’s private rooms. She obviously thinks this unusual too, or maybe she follows to call guards and have him removed. Once he’s got Louis XIV to safety and hidden in the quiet privacy of the queen’s rooms, though, he does give in and falls to his knees, letting Louis XIV go and then falling onto his face. 

“Louis!” the queen says, hushed but overjoyed. 

Porthos is relieved, too; if he had caused the death of their new young king trying to save Treville he’d have been beyond redemption. Even now, if Treville decides, he may be stripped of his honour. To endanger the crown for a friend betrays every duty of a soldier that Porthos has learnt. His life and every soldier’s life is given freely to their monarch, it is not for him to decide to change that. He’s lying with his face in the rug, which is thick and soft and not unpleasant, thinking about his treachery, when there’s a soft gasp and hurried rustle of dresses. 

“Porthos,” Constance says, her voice up high then down by him, her hand on his shoulder, his neck. She turns his head forcefully and holds her fingers before his mouth, then lets out a huffing breath. “You’re alive. Can you move?”

Porthos grunts and finds that, with her help, he can manage to turn onto his side. He tries to lie on his back but pain digs in from under his shoulder and makes him want to scream so she helps him lie on his side. Her dress is covered in his blood, when he gets his eyes to focus, and her face is very pale. She’s only half-focussed on him. 

“One moment, Porthos. I need supplies. And help,” Constance says, getting up and rustling about again. 

Porthos rests his eyes and when he opens them he’s lying on a settee, his cloak under him. He tries to get up, recognising the intricate embroidery and gold as the palace; he doesn’t want to bleed on Louis XIV’s furnishings. His cloak isn’t much protection for the expensive fabric. He sits and then gets to his feet, he shivers so he reaches his cloak and puts it around him and looks about. He’s in a small chamber, the settee and some other furnishings scattered, nothing special. There’s a curtain or something over the settee afterall but he’s up so he makes for the door, limping but steady enough. 

Porthos doesn’t run into anyone and he’s close to where he came in, he finds the courtyard and calls a boy to get his horse. Luckily his uniform is with him again so people do as he orders. He mounts Mercredi with a little help, which is humiliating but effective, and rides for the garrison. He’s working without much thought, trying to get home. He gets to his own bed and sighs in relief, lying down in it’s familiar tangle and falling back to sleep. He wakes, next, to soft laughter and a weight on his bed. He thumps his arm over Athos’s knee in the hopes of shutting him up but just gets a gentle hand in his hair. 

“You, my very dear friend, are going to be the death of me,” Athos says. Porthos grunts in defence of himself but doesn’t bother moving or opening his eyes or actually speaking. “You caused quite an uproar with your vanishing act, slipping away like a ghost. You gave Constance quite a turn when she returned from greeting us and found you gone, leaving nothing but a blood-spotted curtain.”

“Oh,” Porthos says. He’d forgotten that Constance was seeing to him. 

“No matter, we found you again,” Athos says. “Thanks to a stable boy on whom you made quite an impression. He called you a giant, roaring. And so, here I am. The king is well, he and the queen are under the excellent bodyguarding service of Aramis. The regent is resting, just about alive. Thanks to you.”

“Am I to be put to death?” Porthos asks. 

“Not in the least, I believe you’re having a medal and possibly some land,” Athos says, soothing over his shoulders, resting just where it hurts with infinite care. “Why would you be put to death? You saved the king and the regent today.”

“Single-handedly,” Porthos murmurs. “I’m gonna get praise and glory.”

“You don’t sound terribly pleased about it,” Athos says, back to stroking his hair. Porthos is almost asleep again. 

“Didn’t save anyone. I should have taken Louis XIV and run, but I tried to go back for Treville, and he told me to go, but I didn’t,” Porthos says. 

“He’s not telling that story,” Athos says, gently. “He’s telling the story where you saved him and the king. So rest, and accept all the praise and glory, along with the rest of us. We’re going to be lauded, enjoy it while it lasts. The way you go you’ll surely piss the regent off soon enough and be back to old familiar times.”

That is reassuring. Porthos goes back to sleep. 

* * *

Treville’s drifting in and out, trying to focus and make plans, trying to keep track of things but mostly drifting. He’s bandaged and stitched, by court physicians no less, and now he’s propped up on a settee with Constance as people come and go to give him news or get orders or go over intelligence. She’s supposedly there as a nursemaid but she’s paying attention for him and she’s sharp and quick, advising him more than seeing to his wounds. Athos slips in eventually with a nod and smile so Porthos is ok and seen to. Treville hadn’t realised quite how tense he’d been holding himself, how much worry he’d held onto, until he relaxes and things go fuzzy for a bit as he gets deep, easy breaths. 

“He thinks you’re going to have him brought up on charges for disobeying orders and putting your life ahead of the king’s,” Athos says. “I disabused him of the idea.”

There’s an undercurrent to what Athos is saying, some kind of threat. Probably in case Treville is thinking of bringing Porthos up on charges. He’s not. He had been a little miffed at being rescued, he’d meant to die in defence of his king. He’s not sad to still be alive though, there’s plenty he can still do to protect Louis. Treville loved the old king, he played with him as a child when he himself was still young, up at court thanks to his father’s name but already a soldier all the same - his father hadn’t had that much pull or money. 

He saw Louis through Marie de Medici, saw him grow, saw him make mistakes. He’d not been a good king, nor a particularly good man all the time, but Treville loved him all the same and he plans to love his son just as much. He’s an easy child to love. He remembers another young man he’d loved, right from the moment he set eyes on Porthos and recognised Belgard in him and  _ known _ . It had been hard to love Porthos, with all the guilt of what he did, but Porthos had made it impossible to do anything else. 

“I’m sure we can arrange a medal,” the queen says. Treville starts. He’d forgotten she is here. He looks across at her, sitting by the window. She’s watching Constance. 

“I think a promotion might be more appropriate,” Athos says. 

“To what position?” Anne says. “There is no commission for him.”

“We can, I am sure, find a suitable reward,” Treville says. “Perhaps it is not our current priority.”

“We’ve set up a watch and guard on the gates and walls,” Athos says. “The king and queen are under ludicrous amounts of protection. You have written to the lords and spoken to the council. There is nothing more to be done tonight, sir, our current priority should be  _ rest _ .”

“Yes,” Anne says, finally tearing her gaze away from Constance and smiling at Treville. “You have done great service to France, Treville, you must rest. I will leave you. Constance?”

“If I might stay, your majesty,” Constance says, head bowed. “The regent is going to need help.”

“That is very generous of you, of course you have my permission,” Anne says, hesitating, gaze resting again on Constance, then sweeping from the room. 

“Did you argue with the queen, Madam d’Artagnan?” Athos asks. “Or are you merely-”

“Do not finish that sentence Athos unless you want I should set my husband on you for making crude suggestions,” Constance says. “Come help me scrape our regent off the couch and pour him into bed, I’ve been giving him wine for hours he must be half senseless with drink by now.”

The world spins and warm, strong arms support him, half carrying him, taking his clothes and leaving him almost naked in the midst of a huge bed, far too soft and far too big. He’s smushed into a pillow, everything slopping about, dizzying and uncomfortable. Everything is so soft and warm, though, also, and Constance and Athos haven’t left - Athos is stood guard somewhere, Treville can hear him answering Constance, and Constance is folding clothes, shifting Treville, bolstering him with pillows. She even brushes his hair off his forehead. He closes his eyes, and sleeps. 

* * *

Porthos strides through the Louvre, Brujon on his heel taking notes and calling orders as Porthos gathers things around him. He’s a little late but he’s been busy. And perhaps striding is an inaccurate descriptor, it’s more like a limp, but it is a determined limp and he is moving with purpose and God help anyone in his way. He keeps that in mind as he strides into the council rooms and every single wigged and be-nobled head turns to look right at him. Porthos locates Treville, Athos at his left, and meets their eyes. Treville, pale and bandaged and in a chair with more cushions than usual, nods very slightly. Porthos has only hesitated for a moment and now he has an ‘ok’ he is full steam ahead, taking the last seat available. And can’t he just see the fight Treville must have had to keep it there. 

“Apologies for my delay, I have been assessing the militias,” Porthos says. 

“Militias?” someone asks, anger just below the surface. At the interruption or the syntactical choice Porthos has no idea, he decides to just ignore it. 

“Yeah, lot of the nobles still in Paris have their own private guards, when they sent their soldiers- ” Porthos says, finding the reason for the anger just in time and changes tac a tiny bit, “naturally they kept a guard back for their families. I have been mustering whatever men are available. Regent, I have the lists, but I would like permission to sign up men from the refugee quarter.”

“No,” de Rosiere says. Him Porthos recognises - he’s a small noble, a Baron who has little land and less influence. But, he has more than Porthos. Porthos braces himself. 

“We do need greater numbers,” Agache says. He’s from a longer-standing family and has a quiet weight to him; his nobility, like Athos’s, is Noblesse d'épée and carries the greatest respect. 

“I have men,” the Marquis de Arcy says, lightly, looking right at Porthos. Porthos ducks his head with an internal wince. 

“Are you offering them, Marquis?” the queen asks, cold and regal even without much actual power. There’s a pause. 

“If… what is the name you use, sir?” the Marquis asks. 

“Porthos,” Porthos says. 

“du Vallon,” Treville says, impatiently, recognising Porthos’s polite belligerence in deliberately misunderstanding. 

“If... ‘du Vallon’ accepts the name that his quite legitimate birth entitles him to, he may have my men,” the Marquis says. 

“Belgarde doesn’t acknowledge my existence,  _ sir _ ,” Porthos says. “My name is my mother’s, my grandfather’s, and I am proud to bear it.”

“However, it marks you a peasant and I have little respect for such. Therefore, my men will remain under my command. I will, if I am available at the time given, bring them, should the regent desire it,” the Marquis says, inclining his head to Treville.

“That was helpful,” Porthos hears Athos mutter. Or rather he sees Athos’s mouth move and gets the gist. He grins and Athos meets his eyes briefly, looking away with his mouth twitching to control a slight smile. 

“Thank you, de Arcy,” Treville says, with all the graceful aplomb of a man born and bred in nobility. With just the right acerbic edge of a soldier who knows he’s not getting backed up. “Before you arrived, lieutenant du Vallon, we were considering our options in terms of meeting Lorrain’s men. With Lorrain dead I cannot make the assumption that the treaty will hold, his son is barely out of childhood and his men will follow Gaston. They might even follow Grimaud. Under discussion is the question of if we are going to fight?”

“It’s our city,” Porthos says, shrugging, passing the lists of men who’ve come to him over. “It’s theirs too, sir. They’ll fight for it.”

Treville nods looking over the papers. He pushes them aside to Athos, who pulls his own paper close, scribbling furiously. 

“My lords, the refugee quarter?” Porthos presses. 

“There are men there?” the Marquis asks. “Why are they not soldiers?”

“They’re farmers, or injured, or old,” Porthos says. “We didn’t demand service of every man. Not yet, anyway. They want to fight, we need the numbers, why not?”

“They’re cowards and peasants,” de Rosiere says, an unspoken  _ like you _ left in the sneer he directs Porthos’s way. 

“I know where I’m from,” Porthos says. “Do you remember where you were born, sir?”

“Porthos,” Treville snaps, glaring down at Porthos. Porthos gives an apologetic shrug and inclines his head politely. Athos is stifling laughter. 

“I think we would get further without this soldier’s presence,” de Rosiere says. 

“He’s a musketeer and he is of noble birth,” the queen says, steel in her voice. Porthos always liked when she straightened out and showed her backbone. “He also commands the respect of the men, they will follow him. He has been honoured with a medal for his recent service. He saved my son, your king. You will treat him with respect,” then she pauses and turns her steel on Porthos. “And you will conduct yourself as if you sat in court at the right hand of the queen, and not as if you were in a tavern.”

Porthos, chastised, nods and pretends humility, hiding how pleased he is. Noble birth even though he kept his right name, and she reminded them all of his medals. Praise and glory, who cares if he gets a slap on the wrist for being rude? He  _ was _ rude. He straightens and looks directly at de Rosiere. 

“I apologise sir, I spoke out of turn and without thought,” Porthos says. “I have been a soldier a long time. The refugees who wish to fight are those who stayed in their villages and towns to protect their lands, they’re from the borders. They ran when their homes were pillaged and burnt, when there was no land to protect, no food to send to feed our soldiers. They have served, and wish to again. I would like to accept their service, if my regent and his council wishes that.”

Athos, who is small and has the knack of keeping people’s attention off him, blows Porthos a quick kiss, to Porthos’s astonishment. Treville obviously catches it too because there’s a thump and Athos winces, then Treville stretches his legs out looking satisfied. He just kicked his captain under the table, like stable boys over-excited. Porthos keeps his laughter stifled until he sees that the queen has obviously been watching their antics too, and their eyes meet and Porthos finds himself sharing a joke with royalty and struggling not to laugh. He considers excusing himself, but Treville winces and he seems tired and Porthos has a lot of work, Brujon is hovering in the doorway waiting, Gaston will soon be at their gates. 

“I think we may recruit from the refugee quarter,” the Marquis d’Arcy says.

“Yes, I too advise this, regent,” Agache says. 

Others quickly add their thoughts and Treville signs something for Porthos, who hands it off to Brujon and sends him to d’Artagnan, who’s waiting for it (though they’ve probably already started enlisting, and are probably not limiting themselves to the men Porthos mentioned here). 

“I have other news,” Porthos says, finding Treville’s gaze and ignoring everyone else. “There is someone else who Lorraine’s men might follow. The Duc would, I think, be able to enforce the treaty. He has no power in Lorraine for sure but the new Lorraine likes him, and Gaston does not. Gaston has hardly endeared himself to Lorraine’s men. If there’s someone else with a claim, even slight, with good blood... They won’t follow Grimaud, he’s not noble and many of them are of Lorraine’s own house.”

“One problem,” Athos says, dryly. 

“Yes, the Duc was not a favourite of Louis XIII. However, Louis XIII is no longer with us, God rest his soul,” Porthos says. “Our new regent has shown us how skilled he is at negotiation, he can sweeten the Prince de Conde. Besides, they know each other.”

“Porthos,” Treville says again, then he sighs, biting back the petulant ‘so do you!’. Porthos can see him biting it back. “I do know him. If you think he might help enforce the treaty…”

“Yeah, captain,” Porthos says, leaning forward and forgetting himself a moment. “Look, he’s a old horse at these games, he knows the court and is skilled. We could use him, regardless of his influence with Lorraine. The people love him.”

“And they do not entirely trust their Spanish queen. The nobles anciene do not like Treville,” the queen says. “I advise this course, Treville.”

There is a quiet murmur of assent and Porthos gets up, ready to escort Treville to le Conde then and there. In actuality it takes another hour and Porthos is not allowed to escort anyone anywhere. He sits in the window, the council dispersed, and sulks. 

“I too am kept shut away from the action,” the queen says, sweeping over, dress rustling. “Would you like to join me and Louis? We were going to play at setting a siege, I believe.”

“Sorry, your majesty, I have other duties for my Lieutenant,” Athos says, reentering. He’d gone to arrange things for Treville, and Aramis who will be riding with him. In Porthos’s place. The queen sweeps out after a few more words and Athos comes over, smiling widely. “Treville wants Marcheaux.” 

“Who should I send the message to?” Porthos asks, bitterly. 

“I would never question your ability to do a job,” Athos says. “Only the need for it. Why do you want to exhaust yourself and possibly use up all your use on this one thing, when you could do so much more?”

“Less erudite than usual, but effective,” Porthos says. “Does it mean I’m allowed to get the red fucker?”

“Yes,” Athos says. 

Porthos perks up and gets to his feet. He gives Athos a quick one armed hug and slap on the back, and wishes him luck, whistling on his way. 

* * *

Treville lets his manservant - a new addition to the fleet of servants he’s had assigned to him, apparently absolutely necessary for regent of France - dress him in appropriate clothes for meeting a prince of the blood. Then he painfully gets back out of them and puts on things for travelling. And his old jacket. Athos comes barging in and makes him take the jacket back off, replacing it with something more fancy. Treville grumbles but at least Athos doesn’t insist on the frills the manservant had and lets him keep his comfortable trousers. He also binds Treville’s arm to his chest though. 

“My arm is fine,” Treville snaps.

“But your back and shoulder are not. This will help immobilize your side,” Athos murmurs. “You will ride in a carriage.”

“I will not, I will ride a horse,” Treville says. 

He rides in a carriage out of Paris, but Aramis is less stern than Athos and lets him switch to horseback for the rest of the journey, saying only that Treville is not to be allowed to complain about hurting. Treville keeps his mouth firmly shut. 

The Prince de Condé, according to intelligence, is staying a couple of hours ride from Paris (twice the time if you take a carriage), with one of the nobles whose lands are renowned for good hunting; the Baron de Bracieaux. Pierrefonds is a castle, over the top, elaborate. Porthos, Treville thinks half-laughing, would adore this place. He walks into the entry-way (and yes he hurts but he doesn’t care and he’s not complaining) and smiles widely - everything is gilt, dripping with excess, glorious with it. 

“Porthos should live here,” Treville murmurs to Aramis. 

“The baron is rather alive, I think,” Aramis murmurs back. 

“He’s old,” Treville murmurs, and Aramis gives him an amused look. 

Their conversation is interrupted by a young man leaping off a horse outside and bounding up the steps through the still-open double doors. The servants scatter, startled, and one of the maids runs off to fetch the footman who’d gone to find the Prince de Condé: there is no need, this is Henri. He looks no older than when Treville last saw him six years ago. His hair’s tied back, a thick bandana keeping it all back off his face. He’s slim, his cheeks pink with exertion. 

“Treville!” he calls, happily. “Aramis!”

“Did you receive my message?” Treville asks, taking the duc’s hands, then accepting an embrace. Henri was always exuberant. 

“No, did you send one? I’ve been hunting,” Henri says, turning to Aramis and shaking his hands. Both of them in both of his. “How is my old friend Porthos? If anyone is going to have gossip on him it’s you, d’Herblay.”

“I have plenty of news of him but you are not to hear it now,” Aramis says. “We’ve come on business.”

“I saw your escort, out there. Regent of France, my captain? How high you have risen,” Henri says, facing Treville again. He bows seriously, which is annoying but very respectful and it makes the servants look away from Treville, who they’d been examining. The bow was slight but enough, and not needed from a prince of the blood. “Come. The baron is resting, he is always resting these days, his daughter went off to Paris and married some Clerbeaux fool and now she’s run off to the countryside to teach the daughters of the poor or some such. He is dying of grief.”

Aramis has a coughing fit which may or may not be masking laughter, and Treville is sure he hears a muttered ‘speaking of Porthos’. He ignores it, he doesn’t want to know  _ that  _ story. The Condé leads them into a small drawing room and sends for wine but when Treville’s told him the news he’s on his feet and already calling for his own servants, preparing to ride out. 

“I assume you’ve brought any and all documents?” The Condé says, his man bringing his coat and travelling things as they speak. 

“Yes, and I have also brought you a seal-ring to give to the young duke. We will buy Lorraine if we must. We need this treaty,” Treville says. 

“Yes I can see,” the Condé says, kicking off his boots and exchanging them. “Matisse, pack me something more elegant to wear, I’ll need to make a better impression than this will afford me. Thank you. Oh, and have my horse made ready, and as many men as can ride within half an hour also. Treville, the boy is young but he’s been raised to this - he’ll negotiate.”

“Give him money, don’t change the border, we've already been generous there,” Treville says. “Any peace treaty or agreement about troops is fine, don’t promise protection from foreign powers beyond what you must. Lorraine will have independence. France will train her an army, fill her coffers, give her support, but we’re not fighting her wars or giving her more land.”

The Condé nods and strides out. Treville rises, aching, and gets a stern look from Aramis. He ignores that (not a word of complaint has he spoken) and they follow the Condé out into the courtyard. There are thirty men mounted, now, and six more come running around the building pulling on the Condé’s insignia, leaping up into saddles. Henri mounts and he and Treville exchange last instructions, Aramis passes over the papers, and the men ride out. Three more run around the side and gallop after them, and then, when Treville and Aramis are mounted and their own escort readying to leave also, two more bolt and cast up dust, horses hoofs pounding to make better time and catch their prince. Aramis and Treville take the journey back more steadily. 

* * *

Porthos makes his way out of the Louvre and back to the garrison. Athos and d’Artagnan are both gone, Clermont and Brujon have been dispatched to stand with men at the gates and keep watch, the other cadets are helping distribute weaponry and food among the troops as they form up and head out under Serge’s gruff quarter-mastering. Porthos looks around for someone to help him with his new task and sees Constance. He debates incurring d’Artagnan’s wrath, decides it’s worth it and hurries over to her. 

“I’m busy,” she says, shortly. “I’m setting up an infirmary for when you men get yourselves into a mess.”

“Good idea,” Porthos says. “Let’s get Madame Desreux and Mademoiselle Leman; since Desreux died his wife’s been after me to give her something to do around here and Leman’s daughter is bored stiff and has been sneaking away from her mother to hide among medical students.”

“I was aware,” Constance says, glaring at him. “How do you think she’s been covering her tracks? She’s already in there and Madame Desreux has been helping me for months.”

“Leperche’s wife?” Porthos suggests. 

“Oh the gate, seeing to her two boys who are far too young to fight. I gave her a uniform. The boys  _ would _ enlist and you signed ‘em up, so I helped her keep them safe,” Constance says. 

“Roussel?” Porthos suggests. “He’s only got the one arm, now, he might like doing some doctoring.”

“Him I have not got,” Constance says. “Nor have I asked Christophe. If you can get me a few more hands for the wounded, I will help you.”

Porthos beams at her and smacks a kiss to her forehead. He gets hit over the head with a large roll of bandages and set on his way with a vicious poke from a splint, but he still goes gladly, whistling again. He knocks up a bunch of his disabled soldiers who bring daughters or wives, and Constance agrees, grudgingly, that she is now free for him. He claps Roussel on the back (Roussel is looking in bewilderment at the equipment being set up around him, and in dismay at the saws and knives. He’ll do fine). 

“Up and at ‘em,” Porthos says, bracingly, and Roussel straightens obediently. 

“It’s my city, sir,” he says, lifting his chin. Porthos nods and buffs his cheek - he’s very young, he was one of Porthos’s youngest. He’s holding up well, considering, and Porthos is terribly proud. 

“Come on,” Constance says, rolling her eyes. She gives Porthos a soft smile when she thinks he’s not looking though. 

They use Athos’s office and collate everything they know about Marcheaux and the red guard. Porthos adds a fair bit about hiding out in Paris when you don’t want to be found and Constance goes silent for that, watching him closely. 

“What?” Porthos asks, stretching out his sore leg and shifting from Athos’s uncomfortable chair to his equally uncomfortable settee. 

“You’re very impressive, sometimes,” Constance says. 

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “Worked hard for it. And you?”

“I’m… scared,” Constance says. Porthos takes a deep breath. 

“So am I,” Porthos says. He can say it, since telling Elodie of his shameful running away. “All the time. Courage isn’t absence of fear, or even standing up to it every single time. It’s coming through and doing what needs to be done, and backing up your friends.”

“Yes,” Constance says, mouth firming. “Yes. I have seen Marcheaux do terrible things to this city while you were away on the front. It is time he met me in a less docile mood.”

“Quite,” Porthos says, holding up his hands. “We’ll do ok, Constance. And if not d’Artagnan will murder me in my sleep so you can rest easy when you’re dead; you’ll be avenged.”

“That was almost reassuring,” Constance says, laughing. 

They go back to tracing Marcheaux’s movements before deciding to do some footwork and heading out into Paris. They start at a bar and work their way through red guard haunts, picking up men here and there who pledge allegiance to Treville. They get information from them and end up with four men at their backs. Porthos isn’t sure, when push comes to shove, that they’ll not fight for Marcheaux, but he chooses to trust. Constance doesn’t notice or think anything of it, so Porthos decides to watch her back very closely. They head down alleys and into ever darker and grimier corners of the city, invading inns and taverns and brothels. Finally they reorient themselves and Porthos, grim but determined, heads them to the court. He no longer has any safety there but he walks in anyway; safety is one thing, but even unsafe everyone here knows better than to come at him. He leaves Constance and the ex-reds on the fringe and walks, waiting for Flea to show up. 

“I hope your purse is full,” Flea says, behind him. He turns and sees her, his purse in her hand, examining its disappointing contents. She scoffs and tosses it back to him. “Not worth keeping. Don’t they pay you?”

“My soldiers have widows and children and no one pays  _ them  _ much,” Porthos says. 

“Too soft,” Flea says. “You weren’t meant to come back here.”

“I need a favour.”

“I don’t owe you any.”

“You owe me this one,” Porthos says.

“Why?”

Porthos shrugs. She does owe him this and she knows it, he owes her plenty as well, they can’t quite do anything about it. She’s still the most beautiful woman he’s seen, he grew up with her and can’t help knowing her. She looks older, drawn, careworn. He sighs and flicks his wrist, releasing the purse he had tied there. No pickpocket could get that, however light fingered. Even Porthos wouldn’t have attempted it and he was the best. He throws it to her and she weighs it, nods, it vanishes. 

“What do you need?” he asks. 

“Clean water,” Flea says. 

“I’ll do it,” Porthos says. 

“You’d do it anyway,” Flea says, lip curling. “Soft.”

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees. 

“Fine. Who do you want?”

“Marcheaux,” Porthos says. “Will’ve been going around trying to recruit people.”

“I know him. If I give him up, this’ll ruin the Court’s reputation for shelter,” Flea says. 

“I’ve got a reason,” Porthos says. “You don’t shelter men who put the court in danger, not even old friends who you owe.”

“He doesn’t endanger the court. And that’s low, we were going to get you out for your safety as well as ours.”

“I will tear this place down to get him,” Porthos says. “My captain is regent of France, I just saved his life and Louis XIV’s life, I have the queen’s ear and the Marquis de Arcy has an army at his disposal. And at mine, if I use the name Belgarde.”

“Jesus lord, Porthos,” Flea says. “I was only asking.”

“He endangers the Court because I, Porthos du Vallon, want his head on a pike,” Porthos says. 

“You’ve never been able to frighten me, don't you start trying now,” Flea says, incensed. “I’ll give you your man but you do not come here again. I owe you nothing, Belgarde, not a single thing.”

“Yeah,” Porthos says, bitterness curling in his stomach at her use of that name. 

He’d used it first, though. And he no longer belongs here in any sense. He turns on his heel and leaves to the banging of weapons on wood, storming back to his people, fuming and cold all at once. Constance steps back from him and the four men with her back away a lot further. Porthos hates it and snarls at them, heckles up, shoulders tense. 

“Porthos,” Constance says, taking the step forward again, facing him. 

“Right. We wait,” Porthos says, and takes them to the Wren. 

They empty the place out and get the grimiest mugs of the pissiest ale, but they sip it all the same and sit, ready and waiting. Marcheaux is brought, unconscious and bleeding, thrown into the inn by cloaked and masked figures who vanish almost at once. Porthos stands and goes to give him a kick. 

“He’s asleep,” Constance says, disappointed.

“What do you want we should do with him, sir?” one of the younger men asks, still sounding uncertain and a little afraid. 

Porthos looks down at Marcheaux and considers, then draws his sword and puts it right through the man, a sharp downward thrust he’s used on the battlefield when death was coming one way or another, painless and, more importantly, quick and silent. Now the men really do look afraid. Porthos picks up Marcheaux’s body and takes it back to the garrison, casting it into the middle of the yard. Someone kneels and checks for a pulse then crosses himself, which makes Porthos sneer, and d’Artagnan rushes to Constance with touches and questions and glares in Porthos’s direction. Porthos turns his back on them and goes to see to Mercredi. 

The peace of the stables calms him and the repetitive motion of combing Mercredi, making her sleek and beautiful, soothes him. She smells like horse and hay, clean stables, healthy animals. He calls one of the boys down from the loft, they’re ever smaller these days as the elder boys go off to war. He thanks the boy for seeing to Mercredi and gives him a few coins, extracting a severe promise to get apples or something that can be shared with the other boys. Porthos strokes Mercredi’s nose and rests his head on her flank, then moves on to Aramis’s handsome mare. He’s running a brush through her mane when Athos comes in. 

“Aramis is back with the regent, Monsieur le Duc is riding out to Lorraine,” Athos says.

“Marcheaux hid in the court,” Porthos says. 

“Yes,” Athos says. Then, “Constance told me a bit.”

“Am I to be drawn and quartered by her husband?” 

“No, not yet,” Athos says. “He’s gone to the Louvre to help Aramis and Treville.”

“And us?”

“We are to see to things here and at the gate,” Athos says. He comes closer and Porthos tries not to stiffen too much. “We have some time.”

“I’m fine,” Porthos says. Then grimaces and rests a hand on Miércoles’ neck, the warmth of her comforting, her breath snorting across his shoulder and neck as she nudges affectionately at him. “I defended my right to use du Vallon this morning but when it was useful I didn’t hesitate to use Belgard.”

“So?” Athos says. “I use my father’s name if it’s useful.”

“Your father was a good and kind man, there’s no shame in carrying his name.”

“There’s nothing that can diminish your honour, Porthos,” Athos says. “It is  _ your _ honour not his, your defence of your family is honourable, your insistence that your grandfather’s name is equal is honourable, your use of Belgarde comes on those terms, not on his terms.”

“That’s nonsensical, you know that right?”

“Sounded good though,” Athos says. “Stirring.”

He comes and slings an arm around Porthos’s shoulders, giving Miércoles a pat and guiding Porthos out into the sunshine. He stops them in the doorway and presses a kiss to Porthos’s jaw and then cheek, rests his forehead on Porthos’s shoulder for a moment. 

“Ready?” Athos asks. 

“Ready,” Porthos agrees.

They step back into the bustle and prepare for the storm. 


	2. Chapter 2

Treville knows Milady is in France. He knows the moment she disembarks at Calais, he receives reports of her as she makes her destructive way through the countryside, through towns, to Paris. He is told the moment she sets foot in the city. He has her marked and followed, watched as closely as if she were a royal. As soon as she heads for the garrison he has her intercepted and brought to him. He lets Constance do it, gives her men and weaponry. She brings Milady in, sword in one hand, knife and pistol in the other, her hair twisted and plaited, all her clothes belted down to allow her freer movement. 

She’s come into her own, since the war - leader of the garrison, training the cadets when there’s no one else, feeding the poor of Paris, keeping everyone safe, protecting her own. Treville hadn’t known he needed an ally until she was suddenly there, supporting and fierce and a friend when his were abroad at war. She gives him a nod and he returns it. They question Milady as to her purpose and make her the offer; charges dropped if she’ll spy for them. She, of course, says no. Constance takes her away and lets her loose on the city, smirking when she returns, peeling an apple with her knife, eyes dark and knowing: there is to be a close watch on Milady de Winter and she is going to find out just how inhospitable Paris can be. 

* * *

No storm comes. The Prince de Condé sends word that the treaty will hold but that Grimaud is gone. Without Marcheux he’ll have trouble raising troops in Paris and without Lorraine he has none beyond her walls. The Condé is riding back with the men who have agreed to help defend Paris, the rest of the troops returning to Lorraine and their new lord. Gaston has beat a hasty retreat to his own lands. Porthos sits in Treville’s quarters at the palace, the outer door open just enough that Porthos can watch Treville talking to Milady and signing orders for her. She looks straight ahead at the wall and seems defeated. Porthos thinks perhaps he should care but he doesn’t; she shouldn’t have returned to France. Treville waits for her to leave, shutting the door behind her, then comes through. Porthos pours him a glass of wine and Treville sits heavily, an arm around his stomach, shaking his head. Porthos gets him water instead and goes to call a maid to fetch the physician. 

“I don’t need a doctor,” Treville snaps. 

“You rule France,” Porthos says. “A runny nose means you get the best physicians in the land. Can’t have you popping off before we’ve sorted out protection for Louis XIV.”

“Yes, fine,” Treville grouches. 

“Are you having Gaston killed?” Porthos asks. 

“No,” Treville says. “You weren’t listening?” 

“Of course not,” Porthos says. Then, “I couldn’t hear everything from all the way over here and moving might’ve drawn her attention.”

“Good point,” Treville says. “Grimaud has certain friends, so long as his pretense is succession. I am simply encouraging them to change their allegiance.”

“You’re a frightening man sometimes,” Porthos says. 

“I kept up with Cardinal Richelieu for years,” Treville says. “Of course I’m a frightening man. Which makes me think, we need a Cardinal.”

“Not right at this moment though,” Porthos says. 

“Perhaps you’re right,” Treville says. 

“Captain,” Porthos says then stops, wincing. “Perhaps I better just call you ‘sir’.”

“You can call me whatever you like,” Treville says, impatient. “What is it you want? It’s not like you to dither.”

“Should I use Belgard? If the Marquis and a few others back me up… de Arcy has done some research, hasn’t he? I wonder why?” Porthos says. 

“He voted that I take the regency,” Treville says. “I think he has his own agenda. I am more likely to act in line with his thinking than Anne would be simply because our politics are closer, you are a favourite now, and his helping you would put him in a good position. I think he was curious about you.”

“Curious. Great.”

“You do incredible things and there are some who think what you have achieved is an impossibility for anyone but nobility,” Treville says. “de Arcy likes to know everything about people, so he can use it. Be careful of him, he’s not a person to trust.”

“Yeah okay,” Porthos says. 

“If you want to use Belgarde then use it,” Treville says. “I know your father, he won’t make a fuss. He’ll wait until you succeed or fail then claim the glory or make a marked point that he never acknowledged you and your failure is why.”

“Too much of my mother’s blood,” Porthos says, grinning, proud of that. 

“I hope so,” Treville says, laughing. “Use du Vallon, Porthos. You bear the name well and bring honour to it, there is nothing wrong with that. You’ve fought for that name.”

“I have,” Porthos says. “Very well, Porthos du Vallon at your service, regent. I’d get on one knee to be completely melodramatic but my thigh bloody well hurts.”

“I know the feeling,” Treville says. 

They spend the rest of the evening commiserating and grumbling about their wounds and Athos finds them at it and laughs himself completely silly over ‘the two old men’ before informing them that the garrison is ready, the guard is at the gate, their men are ranged throughout the city and on patrol, and Sylvie is leading the women of St Antoine. Porthos thinks of Elodie for a flash, her pale beauty and her bravery, her quickness and strength, then his mind passes on to other things. She’s out of reach and can’t help them and she has a small child. She can’t fight for them, this time. Porthos remains in Treville’s rooms brooding and drinking, Athos and Treville going over ‘what next in the search for bloody Grimaud’ and leaving him to his thoughts. They’re still planning for battle even though Lorraine isn’t coming. 

“You think Grimaud’s gonna have much?” Porthos says, looking up. “He’s got no army, no red guard, no royals.”

“He might still have Gaston and we don’t know what men he has,” Treville says. “We’re planning for the worst.”

“He can’t get in the gates anyway,” Athos says, with satisfaction. 

“Can if he’s already here,” Porthos says. “Marcheaux was here, he was with Grimaud before. When did we last know where he was, for sure? It was days ago.”

Treville and Athos go quiet, then a soft little exclamation of ‘shit’ comes from Athos. There’s an inordinately gentle tap on the door and Treville’s servant slips inside to announce a visit from the queen. He looks around expectantly and sensorially but Athos and Porthos don’t move and he has no choice but to leave again, to Porthos’s satisfaction. He’s pleased when the queen arrives with Constance in tow, he shifts so Constance can sit beside him and she does, patting his arm and smiling. His shoulder hurts and he’s tired and it is very tempting to take a nap on her shoulder. He’d probably get told off, possibly whacked around the head, for sleeping on her in front of the queen. 

“My shoulder hurts,” Porthos blurts out, hoping for some sympathy. 

“Terribly sad,” Athos says. “The queen has a thought, Porthos, and you interrupted.”

“Oops,” Porthos whispers, which makes Constance smile at him but also give him a stern warning look. “Apologies, your majesty.”

“As I was saying, two women pass unnoticed in a place where aid is needed,” the queen says. 

“Do you remember last time we went out to give help, Anne?” Constance says, rudely. She seems to be allowed to be rude. The queen just shrugs.

“This time I have the wit not to go as the queen of France,” the queen says. “Louis went out as a peasant to have fun, why should I not be my own spy?”

“Do you want a list?” Constance asks. 

“Not particularly,” the queen says. “Constance and I have been arguing about this all afternoon, I thought we should get the regent’s thoughts on the matter. I’m glad we have two of the country’s finest musketeers here too.”

“I think it’s a daft idea,” Porthos says. “Louis got kidnapped and nearly died.”

“Yeah that wasn’t the finest argument to back you up,” Constance says. 

“Shut up,” the queen says. “I’m not about to get drunk and start a fight over cards.”

“Or ask me to fight for your entertainment,” Porthos says. “That was fun though.”

“No,” Athos says, killing Porthos’s little spark of hope for a future that might include brawling in taverns. 

“Fine,” Porthos grumbles. “Why don’t they just take me with them?”

“No offence, love,” Constance says, lips twitching. “You’re not exactly the ‘blend in quietly’ type.”

“I could be,” Porthos says, taking every single offence and sitting up straight. Athos hurriedly takes a sip of wine and promptly chokes on it and the laughter he was trying to hide. “Fine.”

“No, I need you both,” Treville says. “None of you will blend in, we decided that the musketeers would be a presence, you’re all well known. How is Soris shaping up?”

“About as well as you’d expect from someone barely thirteen and not too bright,” Porthos says. “He’s helpful and eager and not bad at close combat.”

“He tends to drop his sword,” Athos says. 

“Good,” Treville says. “And…”

“Pia,” Porthos says, getting the point. “He’s small and walks with a limp, doesn’t hinder him much in a fight he’s a right scrappy little lad. He’s seventeen, got a bit of experience under him., been at the front if only for a few weeks. Broke his leg in a bad way and got sent home to work in the stable.”

“Take Cecille,” Athos says. “She’s the daughter of a friend of Sylvie’s, she lives in St Antoine, she’s very very good with a sword.”

“What are we to do with this little gang of misfits?” Constance asks. 

“Clothes and food,” Porthos says, then remembers, belatedly, his promise to Flea. “Clean water. You’d better be a lesser noblewoman your majesty, Alice Clerbeaux wouldn’t mind a cousin I’m sure. That gives you a reason to go to houses and you can send the boys to the taverns and inns with coin to get ale or something, make up something you need.”

“Just keep an eye out and keep your faces covered,” Athos says. “Don’t ask questions.”

“Except, ask about anyone injured,” Treville says. “That won’t arouse suspicion. Ask where your help might be needed, and slide the question in. Constance had better ask the questions, or Cecille.”

“Keep the boys close,” Athos says. “Don’t separate yourselves from them. And your majesty, I think perhaps we tell Aramis about your plan after its execution.”

“That may be best,” the queen says. “I was thinking he might stay with Louis, though.”

“Porthos can,” Treville says, brightly. 

Porthos remembers Flea again and doesn’t bother to complain, just nods and waits until Athos heads out with the women to get things sorted. Then he brings it up with Treville, and gets shouted at for making promises. Porthos takes it but won’t lower his head or be ashamed. Clean water should be a right, not a privilege, it shouldn’t depend on location. Treville can get their water sorted so he should. 

“Would you stop looking at me like that?” Treville huffs eventually. “Obviously I will do what I can so that the Parisian people have water and I will, I suppose, authorize you to take a supply or something out there if you must. I’m not a monster, I’ve just got a lot of demands at the moment.”

“Yeah well  _ someone  _ once told me to judge a leader by the way he treated the poorest and most desperate of his men,” Porthos says. 

“Lord in heaven, Porthos, that must have been fifteen years ago, you remember that?” Treville says. 

“You do too,” Porthos says. 

“Yes,” Treville says, meeting his eyes, smiling. “This scrawny soldier standing shaking before me trying to turn in his commission because he couldn’t afford a horse, so unutterably grateful we found one for you. You could barely speak to thank me. Ha! Now look at you.”

“Don’t,” Porthos says, frowning, pressing a hand to his arm, his shoulder aching. It’s the same place he got hit with an axe. “Not much to look at, sir.”

“You’re glorious,” Athos says from the doorway, returning, little emphasis in his voice just dry fact. “Are you coming?”

“Where?” Porthos asks. 

“Dunno,” Athos says and turns about. 

Porthos follows him with a shrug to Treville and they wend their way through the Louvre to sit outside, near the kitchen garden, hidden in a nook that the guards use to take a break sometimes. They’ve used it too, when on duty here at the palace, to hide from Treville or Louis XIII. Young men, Porthos thinks. That’s what they were last time they sat here. No responsibilities save to themselves.

“I have duties,” Athos says. “You have to guard the king.”

“My back aches,” Porthos says, shutting his eyes and tipping his head back. “My chest aches. My leg aches.”

“You’re used to it,” Athos says. 

“Yeah. Athos?”

“Yes.”

“I-”

“No, I mean ‘yes’ is the answer to the question you’re going to ask me. All the questions. Yes, I love Sylvie. Yes, I love you. Yes, I’m leaving Paris. When we settle things here, I’m taking her away, if she’ll come.”

“I wasn’t going to ask any of that,” Porthos says. “I was going to tell you I love you, and that we’ll get through whatever’s coming… I knew you’d leave.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. Always was in your plans. Gotta run off, you’ve got that yearning to be gone. Always were just waiting for the opportunity. Don’t think I don’t know you almost went with Milady, four years ago.”

“Nearly five now. I’m done fighting. What about you?”

“Always gonna be fighting.”

“You don’t have to.”

“There’s always gonna be a battle for me, Ath. Look at me, Treville says. You know how hard I fought to get this far? I’m a lieutenant. That’s it. You made captain after spending ten years drunk, Aramis is my rank after spending four years as a monk, d’Artagnan will make captain before me. I once told Samara I know who and what I am and I wasn’t lying, I know the way people see me. Don’t tell me it’s not true because I know it is, fuck it  _ you _ know it is. I don’t have much of a choice, is what I’m saying. Whatever I do, wherever I go, I’ve got to fight.”

“What is worth fighting for, in that case? Where will you fight?” Athos asks. 

“I dunno,” Porthos says. “I’ve got a king to watch over and you’ve got a regent to serve, let’s get that done and turn to philosophy afterwards, eh?”

* * *

Treville calls the council together. He doesn’t mention that the queen has gone spying about the streets, that is a particular line he doesn’t think they’ll approve of him crossing. Instead he updates them on where things stand. The news about Prince de Condé’s involvement helps smooth things over about Lorraine and losing ownership there. Treville promises he’ll keep that open, and when things are safe they can revisit the possibilities of regaining it. They all agree that Marcheaux’s death is a step in the right direction, but Grimaud is who they really want to see dead. 

“And you think he’s in Paris?” the Marquis de Arcy says, leaning forward. 

“A single man is not much of a threat, surely,” de Rosier says, restless and bored. 

“This particular man has caused a lot of trouble and shown himself able to raise an army at very little notice. He has money, he has influence - he is very clearly a threat,” magistrate Bellavoix says. 

“Yes, fine, what are we doing about it?” the Duke de Beaufort snaps, features pinched and angry. Treville keeps his mouth shut over the Duke’s involvement with Grimaud, and his own anger is much better hidden. He smiles. 

“First we need to establish if he truly is in Paris. We are very ready to guard against external threat,” Treville says, and is interrupted in a timely manner by Athos slipping into the room and standing against the wall just inside the door, trying to be invisible. “Athos has been looking at how we might change our strategy if it turns out the threat is internal.” 

There’s a stirring of discomfort. Treville knows why; he’s brought the musketeers into council meetings, places which are supposed to be spaces of nobility. Inaccessible to those who are  _ poor _ . Athos steps forward and takes a seat left empty, causing more stirrings. 

“My dear comte,” de Arcy says, silkily. “What have you come up with, de la Fere?”

The name-drop causes a stir. Treville wishes it hadn’t been dropped. Athos hates it, for one thing, and a bad tempered Athos tends to be far less diplomatic. He can do diplomacy, he’s very good at it in fact, but he can choose not to. Before Athos can do or say whatever he might be planning in retaliation to someone using his name like that, the door opens again and the Prince de Condé slips in and takes a seat next to Athos. 

“Hullo Athos,” Henri says, blithely ignoring the slight tension in the room. 

“Sir,” Athos says, inclining his head in deference before turning back to the council. “I’ve been assessing and strengthening defences at the Louvre, Marquis. We’ve identified certain landmarks we think Grimaud might strike at; the gates, the palace, the musketeer garrison as he seems to hold a personal grudge against us. The refugee quarter at Saint Antoine, the bastille. I’ve redistributed the, uh, the men who’ve been on the gate. I suggest each of you is a target, both for violence and for attempted bribery. Those of you able and willing might stay at the Louvre, those of you with family it might be wisest to send them out of Paris.”

“You are just as Porthos describes,” Henri says, as Athos subsides. Athos twitches. “Though I think perhaps a little taller.”

“Sir,” Athos says again. 

“The Prince de Condé brought men,” Treville says, glaring at Henri. “I have people gathering intelligence right now, when we know more we can better plan our defence. Thank you, I think that’s everything.”

The meeting breaks up and Athos comes to stand quietly at Treville’s side, following him out. Henri also follows him out, much to Athos’s annoyance. Not that Athos shows much. He sits when they reach Treville’s rooms. 

“Aramis and d’Artagnan are trying to secure the Garrison,” Athos says. “d’Artagnan’s doing well; he’s assessed his resources and when I left him he was hammering out a good plan. Aramis is probably going to find out about the queen soon and come rushing up here.”

“You are definitely taller than Porthos told me,” Henri says, joining them with wine and glasses. Treville’s wine and Treville’s glasses. “I suggest your next step should be to identify those nobles who are in Paris who are supporters of our current wonderfully unorthodox regime, and those who are not.”

“Aramis is better at that,” Athos says. “I know Beaufort is royally pissed, de Arcy is enjoying the fuck out of this, and de Rosier has no idea what’s going on.”

“The council will back Treville,” Henri says, waving that away. “Even Beaufort, he goes with the money and the popular tide. Besides, Treville offers some semblance of safety right now. What did Beaufort  _ do _ , by the way, Jeanne? The look on your face when he spoke!”

“If you could contain yourself for five minutes, Henri, it would be appreciated,” Treville says, rolling his eyes. “There aren’t many families in Paris right now, I think you’re right that we should discover who is who though. I have a bit of intelligence but don’t know much, there hasn’t been time. I’ll send Aramis to be charming at the front door. Do you have a man who might be of use, Henri?”

“Oh dear me yes,” Henri says with relish. “My Mosqueton is very good at playing the simple gossip. Porthos found him for me, I am only allowed him on loan. When he is rich and famous Porthos is going to take him away from me.”

“Send him to the backdoors to charm the kitchen staff, see what gossip’s going around,” Treville says. 

“I will go sit in a tavern,” Athos says, finishing his wine and getting to his feet. He gives Henri a long, level look. “Porthos talks too much. He has not, however, told me much about his friendship with you.”

And with that slight, Athos is gone, his cloak snapping around him, ever dramatic. Henri laughs, picking up Athos’s empty glass. 

“I like him,” Henri says. “Tell Mosqueton what you want, I’ve told everyone that they’re to take orders from you or the musketeers. I’m going to look up an old friend.”

Treville sighs as Henri leaves too. It seems he has to do everything himself. He calls a servant to go find Mosqueton, remembering in time that he can do that, that he doesn’t have to do everything himself, and in fact wandering the Louvre looking for a servant himself would look odd. He pours himself more wine while he waits. 

* * *

Porthos finds Louis with his nurse, under heavy guard. Louis’s petulant and upset at being cooped up so Porthos starts a rough game of hide and seek that uses up all the kid’s energy so the nursemaid can put him to bed. She and Porthos are sitting in the window together when there’s a step in the hallway. Porthos moves her so she’s stood the other side of Louis’s bed, then silently puts himself between them and the door, shifting his weight and lowering himself into the shadow. The door opens and Porthos stills, sword and knife both drawn. A figure steps into the room and Porthos just manages to keep himself in check before he skewers the prince de Condé and causes an incident. 

“You might announce yourself next time,” Porthos grumbles, sheathing his weapons and straightening up. 

The Condé makes a high, light sound of shock and stepped backwards, thumping against the closed door, not having seen Porthos. 

“So might you!” he says, eyes narrowed at Porthos, barrelling forward. 

Porthos laughs and opens his arms to the man, accepting the enthusiastic hug with equilibrium. 

“Henri,” Porthos says, warmly, hand in his soft fuzzy hair, a kiss against his cheek. 

“It is  _ good _ to see you!” Henri says, twisting about so he’s more firmly in Porthos’s grip, and to get another kiss, on the other cheek. Porthos obliges, amused. “Have you been well?”

“Mostly,” Porthos says. “Hardly could be well all times in six years, could I?”

“You could, I have been,” Henri lies. Porthos snorts and Henri laughs. 

“What are you doing anyway, sneaking into the king’s quarters?” Porthos says, remembering himself and his duty and pushing the Prince de Condé away. 

“I was looking for you actually,” Henri says. 

“And yet you were surprised to find me,” Porthos says. “What do you want? You’re distracting me.”

“You talk to me like I’m ten years old. I’m older than you are!” 

“Yeah, who’d have guessed? Come on Henri.”

“Lorraine’s men will abide by the treaty, but the army wasn’t just Lorraine’s men - they made numbers by filling the rank and file with whoever they could scrape up, and those men will follow Grimaud,” Henri says. “You’ve got a war coming to you, excuse me for wanting to see my friend.”

“I excuse it but I do not condone it,” Porthos says. “You’ve told the regent? Good. Have supper with me. Aramis will know about the certain things soon enough and will come charging in here to have a fit and send me away. I’ll find you, we’ll find food.”

“And wine I hope,” Henri says, indignant.

“Of course,” Porthos says. “Now get out of here, I’m working.”

“Really, sir musketeer, I am  _ not  _ ten years old!” Henri says, trotting away. He does seem very young. He always has to Porthos. 

Porthos’s prediction about Aramis comes true sooner rather than later. Luckily there’s not much storming he can do, with the sleeping child so close. Porthos wraps him in an embrace and smacks a kiss to his head and Aramis whispers grouchy things at him for a while before subsiding in his arms, trembling. 

“I’ll sit with you until you’re not scared,” Porthos whispers. 

“She left our son,” Aramis whispers back. “What if she doesn’t come back?”

“She left her son with me,” Porthos says. “You got a problem with that? No, didn’t think so. She’ll be back, or don’t you trust Constance?”

“Asking me silly questions,” Aramis grumps. 

“Well you’re behaving silly,” Porthos says, still wrapped around Aramis. The trembles are going away. “I love you. I’m going to have supper with an old friend.”

“Oh? Oh!” Aramis says, grinning up at Porthos. “You gonna get yourself a new patron?”

“Henri isn’t a patron,” Porthos says. 

“But is he going to fuck you,” Aramis whispers, getting up on his toes to say it right in Porthos’s ear so no one will hear. Porthos blushes violently. “I did  _ try _ to be subtle.”

“Shut up,” Porthos says, pushing him away. “No, by the way, he never has and isn’t gonna start. A friend. Now shush and sit, I’m going.”

Porthos goes. He takes Henri to the garrison and they sit with Serge listening to old stories, drinking wine, eating what Serge’s making for the men. It’s companionable and warm and Henri is funny, he tells stories about when Porthos was younger that have Serge in stitches, clutching the table. Porthos just sits back, smiling, watching Henri’s face. They walk afterwards, through Paris. Porthos takes water to the court and Henri comes with, they leave barrels of it right on the edge. Henri doesn’t know Porthos is from there but he doesn’t ask why they’re doing what they’re doing, he just helps and then walks with his arm in Porthos’s. 

“How are the others?” he asks. 

“Well. Athos is in love, Aramis is enjoying not being a monk,” Porthos says, grinning. 

“Missed all the swordplay, I suppose?” Henri says, with a truly dirty leer. 

“The two ‘a you,” Porthos mutters, shaking his head. 

“I wouldn’t mind if he didn’t,” Henri says. 

“I doubt he would. Go, woo him, I release you from the duty of being company to boring old me when you might be seducing the man of your dreams,” Porthos says, setting Henri laughing happily, clinging to his arm. 

“The man of my dreams,” Henri says, still laughing, breathless. He sobers though. “I loved you, once, Porthos. So very much.”

“Only once?” Porthos says. “I know. I knew.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Thought it best not to mention it, unless you did. You didn’t, and I thought it faded,” Porthos says. 

“Yes, into friendship. I adore you now,” Henri says, smiling again.

“Then it all worked out,” Porthos says, comfortably. 

They’re walking past one of the old red guard haunts and Porthos’s hackles are up from sheer habit and he catches something out of the corner of his eye a moment before there’s movement. He tugs and they fall to the street, Porthos’s body over the Prince de Condé, putting himself between royalty and gunshot, again. He lies where he lands only for a moment before yanking the Condé up and running, keeping low, dragging when he doesn’t get help. He makes it to shelter and sits the Condé against the low wall, peering over to the shadows. The shooter was a professional, there’s no more shots, nothing to give his position away, no movement. Porthos waits, knowing they’re not safe, then looks at his charge. 

“Are you hit?” Porthos asks, hands running over Henri’s jacket, searching. 

“No,” Henri says. “Give me a pistol or something, I seem to have nothing.”

“Where are your guards? And why the hell are you unarmed?” Porthos says, giving Henri a knife and a sword, keeping his pistol and going back to his watch, scanning for a horse, a cart, anything to get them away. There’s an alley a little up the street. “You ready to run?”

“Sure,” Henri says. Porthos points out the alley and Henri nods. 

Porthos gets up and shoots, covering the street as wide as he can, listening to Henri’s pelting footsteps until they still then taking off after him. There’s still no shooting and he’s listening out for it, for any sound, for movement. He sees Henri against the alley wall, head turned to watch as Porthos hits the wall and presses beside him. He reloads quick as he can, letting his hands move by memory, not thinking too hard. He listens. He watches. Nothing

Nothing.

Then he catches it just in time, a shift more than anything to see. Porthos shoots, hauls himself over Henri spilling them onto the ground, his body covering again, head tucked in. He reloads like that, hands above his head, not looking, fingers quick on the familiar gun, the ball already in his palm from a moment ago the powder too. He lifts his head, the other man must be reloading too, and waits. Waits. 

Nothing. 

Then a shift. Porthos shoots and hopes, there’s a curse and then… nothing. Porthos waits. Nothing. He rolls off Henri and turns him, pats his cheek. He’s out, a bruise on his forehead. Porthos tugs at his clothes, searching to check for blood. He finds it. He curses between his teeth, pulling Henri’s clothing away. It’s a graze, Porthos binds it fast and tugs and pushes him against the alley wall, looking around. It’s dark here, so dark, and they’re in the bad bit of Paris, too close to the court, far from the Louvre. He whistles for Henri’s men but they’re not here, not appearing. Porthos curses again. The street’s been quiet long enough that the people who hid are reappearing, skitting off home. Porthos turns his head when the innkeeper ventures out. 

“Go to the Louvre,” Porthos croaks, undoing the straps of his pauldron. “Take this to Athos de la Fere. Bring him here. No one else, just Athos.”

The man goes; he knows Porthos and he knows there’s a coin that’ll slip into his hand with the uniform, knows that if he does well there’ll be more. Porthos has got information on the Red Guard from this bugger for years. While he waits he tries to gather what information he can. He doesn’t dare move far, keeping his body hunched protectively over Henri, trying to keep him warm. Athos comes quickly, given Porthos’s uniform and no Porthos forthcoming Athos flies through the streets of Paris, Jeudi breathing hard after the sprint as they clatter into the street and draw up by the alley, Athos leaping down and running to his crouched friend. He breathes when Porthos sits back, then stops again when he sees the Prince de Condé, white as a sheet, lips parted and eyes closed. He thinks, for a moment- 

“He’s not dead,” Porthos whispers. “I don’t know where his men are, I don’t know who shot at us.”

“They’re dead,” comes a voice from the other end of the alley. 

“I brought you your water,” Porthos says, weary. Too tired for this. 

“You were followed, I came to warn you, I found the soldiers dead,” Flea says. 

“Oh,” Porthos says. 

“Did you see anyone?” Athos asks. 

“Mm. A shadow,” Flea says. “I can get his identity.”

“Why?” Porthos asks. 

“You kept your end of the bargain. An honourable man,” Flea says, her lip curling. “Honourable men keep their word. I’ll not have you tearing the court apart looking for answers. Oh, I know you, Porthos Belgard. You might not be welcome in the court but you grew there, you can get your way, bend my people, do damage. I’m their king, I protect them. So I’ll get you a description, a name, something.”

“Porthos, sort this, find him. I’ll take the prince to the Louvre,” Athos says, getting up. 

He and Porthos lift the Prince de Condé onto Jeudi and Athos pauses a moment, a brief, tiny moment, to touch Porthos’s chin, lifting his head just a little. Porthos snorts but Athos is already gone. Porthos turns, keeping his head up, to Flea. 

“My name’s du Vallon,” Porthos says. “Sorry.”

“Damn right,” Flea says. “Come on, du Vallon.”

Porthos leaves his coat and uniform with the innkeeper and switches boots. There’s a chance the man will sell everything to the highest bidder, but it’s slim. Porthos is a renewable source of income, his trappings can only bring in money once. If Porthos dies his things will be sold in a heartbeat. He feels a pang; he promised the jacket to Constance. He follows Flea through the winding streets, back into the alleys and warren of lanes and houses and corridors he thought he’d escaped. He keeps being drawn back into what is his own personal hell. 


	3. Chapter 3

Treville is sleeping, he’s in his office (well other people say it’s an office, it’s very opulent), he’s stretched out on the settee by the window so it’s like going to bed. As good as. He’s dreaming, sharp pains pushing him through syrupy, feverish memories where he can’t breathe, he’s bleeding out on a doorstep. Porthos is turning him, Aramis is cradling his head in a strong arm, he’s in Athos’s arms in the mud and Athos is weeping, and he’s dying. 

He wakes up to aches and deeper pain that he’s getting used to. He’s healing, but he’s been too busy it seems. He gets up for some water, considering going properly to bed. It might be more comfortable, he might get better rest. The Prince de Condé, Treville remembers, is the reason he’s up. He’s waiting for news from the royal physician. So far all he knows is the Condé is alive, is alright, is being treated, he should have heard real news by now surely. He goes to the door, it’s silent out there, there’s a guard sleeping on duty. Treville gives him a kick and then goes back inside, shutting the doors, looking out of the window. He should send the guard for news. He turns away. 

There’s a feeling, not sound - heat and pressure and the curtains shift, the window-glass trembles. Treville spins back around, ducking down beneath the sill, and catches second and third explosions, fire in the sky, red against the night. He knows it’s the garrison, can tell even from here. He calls for the guard and they watch together, powerless for a moment to do anything but stare. Then they both run for the door, Treville yelling instruction to the guard then racing off to rouse the palace. The palace isn’t easily roused but fire will do it. The guards come running, the servants already skittering around with water and sand in case it should spread. Treville sends a boy running to some of the nobles to ask for people to help, then picks out the men tasked with guarding him, sweeping them up and racing with them to the stables, gathering buckets and tubs and anything, casting it all into a cart. They gallop through Paris sending people staggering and falling out of their way. 

Athos is stood in the entryway to the garrison staring, Aramis is leaning his back on the wall, neither of them are doing anything. When Treville clatters up with his reinforcements Athos turns empty, haunted eyes on him, gazing up pleadingly. Treville takes control and soon they have the flames quelled a little, moving cautiously. There’s another explosion as they work and they set up first aid, Aramis administering what he can with the little they have. They have men and boys and women running to and fro, any water they can find. When another explosion comes they’re ready, rearing back and scattering. There’s a sharp whinnying and Treville and Athos run for the stables, getting the gates open and letting the horses run. Treville helps soak the hay in water, hay is the worst in a fire, and when he looks up Athos is coming out of a stall, Brujon in his arms. Treville follows him out to Aramis and they kneel, watching as Aramis tends to him. 

“Where is d’Artagnan?” Treville asks, throat dry, voice cracking. 

“He went in,” Athos says without inflection. “There was an explosion. Constance was in there.”

“He’s dead,” Aramis says, sharp, busy with the wounded. 

Athos and Treville get up, looking about in helplessness. As much as they throw water on there’s so much fire. Treville corals the people helping - his guard, the Marquis d’Arcy’s men, even the Baron de Rosier has scrounged up a bunch of stable hands and servants, two men who look like they fight in some capacity. He sends them running to find more water and they start soaking the earth, working to stop the first spreading, calling out warnings to the people who live nearby. Treville’s about to run for water himself when a door shoots outwards, crashing towards them. He ducks, calling a warning. Athos cries out, catching hold of Treville’s shoulder and pulling hard forcing him to run toward the building. Treville looks up and sees- 

“d’Artagnan!” Athos yells, sprinting. 

-Treville runs, too, and they meet d’Artagnan, Constance in his arms, her face and arms sooty or burnt of both. Treville touches her cheek, looking for a pulse, but d’Artagnan’s not stopping he stumbles on, mumbling about someone else, more, in the cellar. Treville and Athos look at each other and take off for the building. Heat engulfs them as they run through the fire, the building coming apart, black and soot, bits of flaming wood falling about them. They find Serge and Clermont, and wine, brandy - alcohol.

“Shit,” Athos says, hauling Serge up and carrying him, his surprising strength causing Treville to blink even though he’s seen it, knows it. 

Treville considers trying to do something about the bottles, but there’s no time. It’s too hot, and there are flames coming, sparks and embers falling around them. His breath catches on coughs and he can’t stop, he ducks lower and lifts Clermont, his back protesting, his newly (barely) healed stitches groaning. He’s coming apart at the seams, too, like the building. He coughs and coughs, half dragging Clermont. A bottle explodes and Treville yells and runs, arms around his cadet, pulling and lifting him to safety. A beam comes down as they get up the steps, there’s no other way out so Treville drags Clermont over it, both of them burning, burning, coughing until they can’t breathe. Then there are arms helping, water dousing them, cloth patting out flames, and Treville sinks into it. 

He wakes quickly but already things have changed. Morning is here and the fire is still going but smaller, blackening and dying. He’s lain in the entryway with the others but no one’s close, everyone is around Serge and Clermont, Treville can see when he turns his head. He shuts his eyes, turns his head away, looks the other direction. d’Artagnan’s sat against the wall, Constance held to him, his face blank and tear-stained. Treville tries to sit up but it’s too much, it hurts too much. d’Artagnan looks up at his movement and gives a smile so Constance can’t have died yet. Aramis hurries over to her as Treville watches and he and d’Artagnan have her coughing and sucking water from a cloth. Aramis leaves d’Artagnan to bathe her face and wraps her arms, cuts away her dress to see to other burns. Then he’s coming to Treville and crouching. 

“I’m fine,” Treville croaks. 

“You are burnt,” Aramis corrects. “And you are exhausted. And you have torn your stitches, I took a lot of care over those.”

“Grimaud?” Treville asks. 

“He threw a bottle into a tavern, distracted us. When we looked around, boom. We ran back and d’Artagnan went for Constance,” Aramis says. 

“Is she…?”

“She’s alive,” Aramis says. “Fevered, some of those burns might be deep I haven’t checked properly yet, her breathing is not good. But alive, and we’re going to keep her that way. We’re taking everyone to Christoph’s pub. He and the other soldiers, the refugees, Sylvie’s friends - they’ve come to help, they’ve brought supplies.”

“Porthos,” Treville says, remembering he’s gone.

“Still not back,” Aramis says, grimly, then smiles. “Safer there than here, who’d have thought?”

“It was Grimaud,” Athos says, coming and crouching, lifting Treville to sit against the wall. “He’s come for us. He’s not got a plan though, this is the act of a desperate man.”

“We’ve lost …  _ everything _ , sir,” Brujon says, standing up from Clairmont, eyes bright. He sniffs and rubs his face, stifling his grief. 

“We have not lost anything, yet,” Athos says, low and even, not looking away from Treville for the moment. “All that’s happened is he has given us something to fight for. Yes, Brujon? Musketeers fight for their friends.”

“Yes sir,” Brujon says, not sounding sure. “The garrison.”

“It’s a place, a building,” Athos says, briskly, getting up and clapping Brujon on the shoulder. “He can burn the whole of Paris down and he’d not touch the garrison. We’re the garrison, we defend the city and the people - we can do that from an inn as well as from a barracks.”

“Yes captain,” Brujon says. “Clairmont…”

“Athos,” Treville says, holding out an arm. Athos hauls him up with ease. “He’ll be well looked to, cadet.”

Brujon bows and Treville laughs, imagining the sight he must be. He accepts the deference for the moment, though, he might be wanting people’s loyalty and respect soon. He looks around but by the time he’s ready to give orders, Athos has already done it, loud and clear and making his tone light and buoyant, pushing everyone, inducing energy where there’s none left. Treville falls into line and helps. 

* * *

The court is different. Not the rough, hard welcome that’d slit his throat as soon as feed him but still accepted him. Nor the beat out warning. Nor the shadows of the court’s ‘royalty’, Flea’s people out for him. Instead he’s met with silence. Flea leads him and everyone vanishes before her. No one speaks, there’s not a sound. So much so that when a bowl is knocked over the clatter makes him jump. Flea laughs at him over that. It’s disconcerting, discomforting, threatening. Porthos follows close on Flea’s heels heading deeper in, stooping to pick up bits of fabric, tatters no one has claimed or whose owners have run off to clear their way. By the time they reach Flea’s places he’s one of them, clothing tied and bundled, disguising himself. Flea nods and they go up into her palace, through hallways and down stairs, up steps and onwards. 

“Flea,” Porthos says. 

“I don’t know where ‘e is, okay?” Flea says. “If he’s even here. We’re talking to someone.”

“How much have things changed?” Porthos asks, dread filling him. 

“Not that much,” Flea says, twisting them about and then giving him a push down some steps, slamming the door after him. 

He stumbles, crashes to his knees, hears her laughing up there. He gets up and brushes himself off, looking about. It’s dark, only a small window letting in the moon as it rises, just a smidge. Enough to see the grim walls, no drapes or curtains here, nothing but blank wall and stone floor. Something scuttles over his boot and he yelps, jumping back, and something cracked and wet sounds in the corner, grinding and gurgling out a slow, building laugh until it’s cut abruptly off. 

“The rats always come back,” the corner says. 

Porthos sits down, cross-legged, and makes a mental note never to piss Flea off again. Couteau, the king long before Charon, locked  _ her _ up here, and here she still is. Porthos doesn’t know her name, isn’t sure she has one. She’s just been here, forever, and here she’ll probably die. If she ever does die. Porthos considers asking outright, telling her he’s looking. It had worked when he was seven and lost Flea. He’d been a child, though, and she’d been all twisted up bones with cold. He’d wrapped her hands and ankles to help, given her the bread he had been saving, caught one of the feral dogs for her, tying it up by her to keep her warm. She doesn’t need anything anymore though. Or, perhaps… 

“I can give you sunshine,” Porthos says, inching forwards. There’s a pallet over against the wall, a jug, a plate of food. He can’t make her out. He doesn’t try. 

“What are you on about?” she snaps, like a piano string breaking. 

“I’ll get you outside, tomorrow, in the sun,” Porthos says. “Carry you if I have to.”

“So?”

“You can’t see gold in the dark,” Porthos points out, hoping, hoping, hoping she’ll still go for the brightness of it. She laughs. It starts with a single sound, a drop of rusty water, stops and starts then rushes out only to abruptly stop. Porthos tosses a few coins her way. 

“Fine,” She says. 

“Who do I go to, now, to find a killer?” Porthos asks. “The bad sort. The kind that don’t get paid or want to get paid, who do it for fun and don’t care who, when, where, joy in it.”

“Down the alley a little south, where Biscuit makes up the wine,” she says. “Give me the rest of the gold and if you don’t come back for the morning you’ll wish you’d never been born,” she says, the drop of rust, the coughing tap, the rush and abrupt stop letting him know she’s amused again. “More’n we all already wish.”

Porthos gets up and hurries to the steps and out, banging on the door until Flea opens it from where she’s leaning on the wall there, waiting. He tumbles out and she laughs, tripping him so he falls over again, catching his arm before he goes headfirst and touching his cheek, already turning away and walking off. He follows, he always has followed her. Charon wasn’t wrong, all those years ago, long long years: he does what Flea tells him. He stops, frowning. There’s something not quite right. 

“Porthos,” Flea calls. 

Porthos goes, hurrying to catch her, to tell her what he got told. They talk to a few more people, but the night wears on and no one has much to tell them. Porthos hasn’t got much money, to Flea’s disappointment. They break before dawn and sit on a wall, legs dangling, eating bread and bits of fruit and drinking wine. 

“Still king,” Porthos says. 

“Yeah,” Flea says. 

“Good run,” Porthos says. 

“I’m better’n brighter’n the others,” Flea says, flashing her teeth. “There’ve been tries.”

“Always were better at this than me and Charon,” Porthos says. 

“Yes,” Flea agrees, pulling out his knife from her skirts to cut up an apple. “Next time bring me a sword.”

“That’s not for you,” Porthos says. 

“You want me to take that sword?”

“No.”

“I’ll stick to this, then,” Flea says, cheerfully, jumping up with the knife and stowing it again. 

Porthos growls and Flea laughs, then the world explodes. Porthos is on the ground, Flea under him, unsure the steps his body’s taken while his brain’s been stunned senseless. He takes an inventory as he jumps up, sword drawn, knife reclaimed, standing over Flea and looking around for the carriage that just hit him. It’s not a carriage - there’s nothing there. Nothing where the wall was, either, the whole thing just heat and rubble. 

“Bugger,” Porthos says, looking around. “Flea.”

He grabs her shoulder and pulls her up, ignoring her confused mumbling, pressing the knife back to her, pushing her into deeper shadow, backing up and up. He catches movement and bolts after it. He runs, Flea yells and he turns back to see her fighting but she calls at him to go so he turns again and pelts off down the alley, after the glimpse of black. He twists and turns, tumbling after whoever’s ahead of him, shouting but never getting closer. He finally makes headway when he recognises his surroundings. 

The buildings here are sturdier, less has changed. He cuts across and ducks down an alley and there, just ahead, he’s closing in. He leaps and lands heavily, rolling, gripping a bucking, heaving body. He lets his sword go, this close, finds a knife in the man’s hand instead and fights for it. They roll, Porthos getting a knee in the man’s back, the man getting an elbow in Porthos’s face. Porthos’s head jerks back and hits the stone but he’s got the knife. He gets it deep in the man’s shoulder and he stills, yowling with pain, Porthos gets up on top of him and kneels, holding him still, panting, getting a look at what he’s caught. 

“de Rosier?” he says, shocked. He gets up and tugs the Baron after him, holding the knife to keep the man still. 

He doesn’t have time to work it out, though. Now the shadows come. He shouts that he’s with Flea, but they don’t care. He says his promise about taking  _ her _ outside and that makes them laugh. He doesn’t know why until a bloody knife is dropped at his feet. His own knife. He picks it up, bewildered. 

“Her throat was slit,” one of the shadows says. 

He’s expelled with Rosier, driven at knife point, lifted off his feet when he’s too slow, literally thrown out of the court. He lifts Rosier across his shoulders and heads for the garrison, fuming. 

* * *

Treville sits at a table and talks to Magistrate Bellavoix, the council refusing to convene at a tavern and sending him in their stead. Athos suggested as regent Treville ought perhaps to return to the Louvre but Treville had pointed out that this is their war headquarters, now, and Louis appointed him regent for war. He has an actual war, with Spain, that he still needs to fight, but first he has to reclaim Paris and make it safe. For that, he needs brandy, Magistrate Bellavoix, the Prince de Condé, and the Marquis de Arcy, the baron de Rosier, anyone with men. 

“Regent,” Sylvie calls, coming running in, skirts held up to free her movement. Treville sees Athos’s eyes on her and has to stifle amusement. She’s flushed and breathless as if she’s run all the way from the garrison. Treville gets up to meet her, frowning. “I came as fast as I could. Porthos got back.”

“Where is he?” Treville asks. 

“He came to the garrison, with the Baron de Rosier. The Duke of Beaufort had come to get his men back and gloat - excuse me, sorry, I mean, anyway, and Porthos came with the Baron over his shoulder and the Duke decided it wasn’t Porthos and had him arrested, we got him to bring Porthos here but Porthos is tied up and he won’t let go of the Baron and-”

Sylvie’s cut off by a ruckus outside. Treville and Athos run out and sure enough, the Duke of Beaufort is coming down the street, ten men with him restraining Porthos, whose arms are tied up on his shoulders, where the Baron is held. Porthos bellows and comes at Treville, demanding to be let go. 

“Why have you arrested a war hero and musketeer?” Treville asks the Duke of Beaufort. 

“This man? He’s from a gutter,” Beaufort says. “There’s no likeness with du Vallon.”

Treville opens his mouth, then blinks. The Duke, Treville is sure, actually doesn’t recognise Porthos. 

“He’s doing some work for me,” Athos says, voice very cold. “We’re working in the parts of Paris you want to pretend don’t exist, he can hardly go about peacocking. He’s getting information, you imbecile. Untie him at once.” Beaufort looks like he might disagree with Athos. Athos draws himself up, to his actual height. He usually looks smaller than he is, between one thing and another, but stood with his shoulders back and a haughty expression he fits his full height. “ _ Sir _ ?”

Porthos is untied and comes over, pushing past them and into the tavern, calling for Aramis. Treville and Athos follow and watch as Aramis and Porthos argue about the knife in de Rosier’s shoulder. Aramis throws his hands up and sets about packing the wound but not doing anything else to treat the Baron. 

“Wake him up,” Porthos says. 

“What did he do?” Athos asks, going to stand next to Porthos, body lax and lazy again and making him seem at least a head shorter than Porthos. He shoves his hands into his pockets. 

“Blew up the bloody wall I was sitting on,” Porthos snaps. 

“What?” Treville says, stepping forwards. Porthos sighs, looking at him across Athos’s head. 

“Grimaud has at least one allie in your court, regent,” Porthos says. “Dunno why he decided to blow up a wall though. What the jesus happened to the garrison? What’ve you been doing?”

“Grimaud blew that up, I’d guess the wall was a distraction,” Athos says. “Though, why he needed you out of the way, or knew where you were…”

“I think I was an unexpected bonus, he seemed surprised to see me. I wasn’t the target,” Porthos says. 

Then he shrugs, turning back to watch Aramis work on de Rosier. Treville frowns. de Rosier has never seemed particularly… particularly anything at all, really. He’s a bland man, he’s on the council through connections his father made, he’s a Baron because of things his wife’s done, the queen advocated for them years ago with Louis XIII. Treville likes having him on the council because he tends to spout the populist line, he’ll repeat what he’s heard and that’s useful. The man’s been at the Louvre with the other council members, Madame de Rosier and their two small children are out at the Barony, nothing had seemed amiss. 

“I underestimated him,” Treville says, sighing. 

“Overestimated, more like,” Portos says. He’s still watching Aramis and de Rosier, glare burning holes. “Thought him intelligent enough not to be a bloody idiot.”

“What do you think he’s been doing?” Athos asks. 

“I’d guess he’s complicit in the Gaston farce,” Porthos says. He seems well and truly pissed off. Then again, de Rosier blew up a wall Porthos was sat on, that’ll piss off even the mildest man. Which Porthos isn’t. Athos grabs Porthos’s shoulder as he heads for the table where de Rosier got dumped. “Was just gonna say hello.”

“Last time you said ‘hello’ to someone you didn’t like you put him through the wall of my tent,” Athos says. Porthos grins. 

“You needed a new one anyway, that one was shot to shit,” Porthos says. “Captain of the regiment shouldn’t be hosting Spanish guests in such a bad tent.”

“I wasn’t hosting anyone at all until you threw him in,” Athos grumbles. 

“If we could focus?” Treville says. 

Porthos shakes Athos off and, with his implicit warning in place, Athos lets him go. Porthos takes a chair and flips it, sits on it backwards to rest his chin on his hands on the back, down so de Rosier can see him grinning. 

“Someone once told me I’m a poor interrogator,” Porthos says. “No finesse.”

“None at all,” Aramis agrees. “You’re in my light Porthos.”

“Yep. Bit of a blunt instrument, me,” Porthos says, not moving. “No nuance. I tend to go for the pain, tend to think that’ll do it.”

“There’s much more to interrogation than pain,” Aramis says. “For example, if I do this,” he pushes hard on the cloth that’s packed around Porthos’s knife and de Rosier yells, “we’re not going to get anywhere. Are you about to spill all the state secrets, Paul? No?” Aramis, who's been examining the knife, now yanks it out. “How about now?”

“Aw, I was gonna use that,” Porthos says, reaching out to take the knife back, de Rosier’s blood staining his skin, the rag he pulls out to wipe the blade, the apple he slices with it, his teeth when he bites the apple. Or maybe the apple’s just one of those pinky ones. Treville thinks it’s probably the latter, it looks good though. “More to it’n getting them all scared, as well, ‘mis.”

“Hmm. You’re right,” Aramis says, pulling away the cloth and examining de Rosier’s wound. “You’ll live, sir Baron.”

“Excellent,” Porthos says. “Can’t get nothing out of a dead body, can we? Right,” he gets to his feet, pocketing his apple and sticking the knife in his belt. “Let’s get started. Tell us about interrogation, Athos, you’re the captain.”

“There are all kinds of different techniques,” Athos says, still stood with Treville. “Sometimes it’s effective, sometimes not. It’s all about finding someone’s breaking point, their weakness. Just try some things out.”

Porthos nods and looks around, wanders over to the doorway into the back, by the cellar, ducking out and returning with some rope. He runs a stretch of it through his hands, humming cheerfully, as he approaches de Rosier.

“This technique, we bind you in a position that’s just the wrong side of unbearable, and we leave you there,” Porthos says, then snaps his fingers in de Rosier’s face, making the man jump. “Let’s do two at once, make the process a bit quicker. Captain, your scarf?”

“Of course,” Athos says, throwing a bit of cloth over. 

Porthos blind-folds de Rosier and loops the rope around the man’s good arm, pulling it back, whistling as he works. He wraps the rope around de Rosier’s chest a little too tight to be comfortable and then takes his bad arm and gives it a gentle, experimental pull. de Rosier yells. Porthos lets go, of the arm and the rope. 

“On the other hand, Louis the XIII, may he rest in peace, gave you land and position,” Porthos hisses, close to de Rosier. “Her majesty the queen is friends with Madame de Rosier, his Majesty Louis the XIV is now our monarch and you owe him your allegiance, your loyalty. Who bought you, de Rosier?” Porthos spits. “What riches were offered that goaded you, weak and easily lead and so pathetic, into giving up the comfortable life you’ve been gifted? What possible hardship has ever touched you enough, what was done to you, to make this justified? I’m not gonna hurt you, there’s not a point in the world, I don’t need to. Tell me what you know.”

“I’m not scared,” de Rosier says, voice quavering. 

“You’re terrified,” Porthos says. “The only reason you haven’t tried to run is you can’t, you’ve lost too much blood and you’ve never been much of a fighter, you’ve never had the need for it. Tell me what you know.”

“I won’t,” de Rosier says. “Torture me all you like.”

“I said, I’m not gonna hurt you,” Porthos says. He yanks the scarf off of de Rosier’s face. “I could probably make you talk, not sure I want to bother with it. Blunt instrument, me. You’re not much of a problem, only problem’d be your men following your idiot-lead. Solution to that problem is putting you to death. 

“Now, the regent of France is sat right over there and won’t think much of me for murder, but I’ve had a bad day. Your men hurt my friend, nearly killed the woman who keeps the blasted court of miracles in enough check, burnt down my garrison - ah, you don’t like Grimaud? What about Gaston? Huh. So, the legitimate heir to the throne is here and will be ready to rule in five to ten years, and you think it might be the intelligent choice to help a prince of the blood who’s probably the only man in France with less brains than you. Yeah, you’re no help to me.”

Porthos draws his knife. 

“Porthos,” Aramis warns, and Athos steps forward. 

Treville turns away, as de Rosier’s eyes search for him. He’s pretty sure Porthos isn’t actually going to kill de Rosier. If he does it won’t be much of a loss, really, Treville thinks. Magistrate Bellavoix is sat at a table off to the side, watching events unfold. Treville goes to join him and they both look down at the papers between them. 

“They won’t kill the Baron, surely?” Bellavoix says, softly. 

“I have no idea,” Treville says. “They’ve got to make him believe it, and from what I know of those three that can end in believing it themselves.”

“We had a few reservations, when Louis the XIII, God rest his soul, asked us to make you regent; the Baron over there thought you might be a little too soft, and there were others who thought you lacked the ruthlessness they wanted in a regent,” Bellavoix says. “I, on the other hand, have been at the Louvre for a long time. I remember Cardinal Richelieu speaking of you.”

“Ah,” Treville says, a smile twitching his lips. Richelieu had always found him a nuisance, and he’d found Richelieu an unprincipled bastard. They’d respected each other, for the most part, and worked together especially in the early days. Richelieu will have had a story or two. 

“Regent,” Porthos says. 

Treville gets up and takes his glass of wine over to de Rosier, who’s sagged in on himself and looks defeated. Porthos draws up a chair for Treville and another for de Rosier, knocking him off the table he’s on and pushing him into the seat, standing behind him, hands on his shoulders. 

“You say my name will be kept out of it? My wife will keep her position at court, no one will know of this?” de Rosier says, voice cracked and thin. 

“I can’t promise nothing,” Porthos says. “Just a soldier, me.”

“Your punishment will fit your crime,” Treville says. “Your wife and children, however, have done nothing wrong - they will not be punished. Even by the damage you have caused to their position and the shame you have brought to the name they bear.”

“Thank you,” de Rosier whispers. “Gaston would have been a good king. He and Lorraine had a plan to-”

“We know about that,” Porthos growls, yanking de Rosier back in the chair making him cry out in pain. 

“Porthos,” Treville says. “Let go of the Baron and go about your duties, you must have some.”

Porthos shrugs belligerently and wanders off to sprawl nearby, in de Rosier’s eye-line, playing with his knife. 

“I-I-I,” de Rosier says. “Grimaud came to me, after Lorraine was killed and Gaston was warned. Gaston refused to be part of any plans, he’s too afraid, so Grimaud and I, and others, we are to win Paris in his name and hold it for him until he finds his courage.”

“What ‘others’?” Treville asks. 

de Rosier gives them names, and places where there are weapons, where they have been meeting. There’s a slyness in his eyes that Treville’s noticed a few times in council when he thinks he’s being diplomatic, hiding his true feelings. Porthos shifts. 

“How’d  _ you _ end up in the court? Why aren’t you dead?” Porthos says. 

“Grimaud took me,” de Rosier said. “I have men who… blend in.”

“I’d have slit your throat if I saw you there, when I was… what would you call me, Paul? A peasant, a coward, a gutter rat,” Porthos says. 

“You asked if I remember where I’m from,” de Rosier says. “You know where I’m from. I haven’t forgot, and nor have those I grew up with. Some rise to the surface -”

“Yeah, scum rises to the surface,” Porthos says, nodding.

“-and some sink,” de Rosier says. “You’re not the only one with connections they’d rather not advertise.”

“I’m not ashamed,” Porthos says. “I was born there, grew there, and now I’m a musketeer, close to kings and queens, friend to royalty. I learnt  _ my _ loyalty where it matters.”

“And where it’s easily bought,” de Rosier says. 

“What did Grimaud tell you to do?” Treville asks. 

“Set off a few explosions and make some trouble, kill some woman who lives in a hole and knew too much, I don’t know. I only got around to the first explosion,” de Rosier says. “Grimaud wanted me to send men. My father bought my education, my good name, everything. I wanted to do something myself.”

“Who else was to ‘make trouble’, and where? And why?” Athos asks. 

“That court mutt, calls herself ‘king’, was making Grimaud’s life hard, didn’t want him there, said he was stirring things up,” de Rosier says, waving it aside. “There was a tavern, the order was to distract some of the soldiers. The gate, the musketeers garrison.”

Treville idly looks over at Athos, who’s already grabbing his hat, Aramis handing him sword and pistol, and dashing out to check the gates. 

“The garrison was a distraction,” Porthos says. “To distract from what? Where is Grimaud?”

“He left the court last night, he said he had things to do, I don’t know what. My men are stationed in a copse outside the city, we have our ‘militias’, as you named them, Vallon, out there ready. They are coming, and Paris will burn,” de Rosier says. 

“Can I shoot him now?” Porthos asks. 

“How many men?” Treville asks. 

“Tens of thousands,” de Rosier says, grinning now, sitting up, bolder. Porthos also sits up and pulls a chain out of his pocket, using his knife to prise open the locket on there. A small twist of hair with a ribbon falls out. de Rosier sneers. “You wouldn’t hurt a child, Vallon.”

“My name is  _ du _ Vallon,” Porthos says. “And it’s you who’s hurt them, I’m  _ offering  _ to  _ protect _ them. Something you have singularly failed to do.”

“There are three hundred men,” de Rosier says, slumping again. “Only twenty five are mine, the others are from that list I gave you, I don’t know whose are whose.”

“When will they attack?” Treville asks. 

“When night falls. Tonight. When the fires start,” de Rosier says. “At the gate, at the house of magistrate Bellavoix, at the house of the Marquis de Arcy, and here. Grimaud knows where you are hiding.”

“Before we recover from this morning,” Porthos murmurs. “That was to throw us off, force us to move, and get back at the court. Regent? I suggest taking this man to the Bastille, they have some nice small cages there and can forget a name.”

Treville nods and Porthos gets up, calling for two of the cadets. de Rosier’s two men come as well, who’d been at the garrison helping with the fire. They start when they see their master and Treville narrows his eyes. 

“I bought them,” de Rosier says, irritably. “Grimaud said I needed more men. My housekeeper sent them, last night, I had no say in that.”

“I like your housekeeper,” Porthos says. 

The two men are sent away and the cadets drag de Rosier up and out as well. Porthos is already gone, too, calling out instructions, shouting for Christoph. 

“Where will we go?” Brujon asks, watching as a bustle starts up around them. 

“Nowhere, yet,” Porthos says. “We don’t want Grimaud to know things have changed, currently we have more pieces of his plan than he knows, I want to keep it that way. We’ll get everything prepared, then you’ll take the injured out the back way, I’ll give you keys and instructions where.”

Treville goes back to magistrate Bellavoix and they start looking over the list of names de Rosier supplied, considering what might be done, who might be approached now. They have intel from Anne and Constance's work, and from Aramis and Mosqueton doing door to door, there's plenty to cross reference. Treville hurries through, scribbling a report for Bellavoix to take to the council, and he leaves too. Treville turns, looking for the next thing to do, and comes face to face with Athos. 

“Return to the Louvre, regent,” Athos says. “Your safety is important.”

“I’ve got work to do, captain,” Treville says. 

“Porthos is doing it,” Athos says. “You trust him, let him have his head, he'll get things tied down here. The gate is fine, nothing to report, we cleared out what we could without drawing attention and Leparche has things in hand.”

“Didn’t Leparche die?” Treville asks, frowning. He’d served with the man so the name from the casualty lists had stuck with him. He hadn’t had much family. He’d had a wife… 

“Must be a brother,” Athos says, eyes wide and guileless. “Things are under control, sir, return to the palace. Brujon will escort you.”

Brujon comes up, hands twisting. He’d wanted to remain with Clairmont but clearly hadn’t been allowed. Treville smiles at him and claps him on the shoulder, scheming to let him return via the address Porthos gave, thinking to give him some official duty to avoid drawing attention to the house. He decides that, for now, he must concede this ground, and heads out with Brujon at his back, the palace guard falling in around them. 


	4. Chapter 4

“We’re ready,” Porthos says. 

It’s been four hours since de Rosier was sneaked away to the Bastille, since Treville returned to the louvre. Athos is sat outside on the steps to the inn, pretending ease. They’ve got people coming and going, bringing medical supplies and taking away bandages and dirty water, to give the impression of no change.

“Where did you send them?” Athos says. “I didn’t recognise that address.”

Porthos rubs the back of his neck and sits down, deciding five minutes break is in order - probably Athos’s plan. His leg hurts, the wound there still healing. Athos offers him a bottle of wine and Porthos takes a deep drink. Aramis comes out with some bread and cheese and meat to share, sitting with them. 

“So,” Aramis says, mouth full. “What was that address, Porthos?”

“My thigh hurts,” Porthos says. 

“Mmhmm,” Athos says. 

“It will,” Aramis says. 

Both of them wait. Porthos drinks some more wine and eats a little, but then gives in. 

“Bought it, didn’t I? When we got back to Paris. I still had that money from General de Foix, it’s been sitting, I didn’t want to touch it,” Porthos says. “I was out walking and I saw a sign. She was a widow, needed the money, it’s a big house for one person. She still lives there, never quite left - Madame de la Trémouille. Her Monsieur was a soldier as well as a Duke, she’ll deal beautifully.”

“My dear Porthos, you’ve been keeping secrets,” Aramis says, delighted. 

“Not like yours,” Porthos grumbles, embarrassed. He hadn’t meant it to be secret, per se, he’d just not believed it was real. He never thought he’d own his own house. 

“Now we wait,” Athos says, sighing frustradely. “Sylvie slipped away at some point, she’s a good fighter, I hope she’s not gone to play nursemaid.”

Porthos grunts. They sit for a while longer, the few cadets come and go, ask for reassurance, or to sit with them, tentatively, beaming when allowed to stay, or to ask advice. Porthos spars with them briefly before he claims injury and sits again, stretching out his aching leg dramatically and sending them skittering back inside, returning quickly with wine and solicitousness. Porthos gives Aramis a wink and a grin and Aramis laughs, there’s a lightness that dispels the heavy waiting a little. Then Athos jumps up, breath catching, and Porthos looks around, also on his feet. Aramis leaps up as the horse comes clattering up to the head of the street, the rider tosses someone down and clatters away. 

They run after it, Aramis loading his pistol. Porthos crouches by the body as the other two give chase, his leg genuinely sore enough for this to be his duty. He could run if he had to, but for now he doesn’t have to. He vaguely recognises her from somewhere. There’s a weak pulse beneath his fingers when he searches for it so he calls Athos and Aramis back. Aramis comes and examines her, finds the blood at her stomach. He and Porthos exchange a frightened look. 

Athos is staring, wide eyed and whiter than ever, there’s a bit of paper clutched in his hand. 

“That’s Rochelle,” Athos says. 

Porthos holds out a hand for the paper and reads aloud. 

“My dear Athos, Aramis and Porthos, if you do not come to the refugee camp by noon, I will execute each and every one of the men, women and children here one by one until you show up. Starting with Sylvie. Grimaud,” Porthos says.

“That’s where Grimaud is, then,” Athos says. “And where Sylvie is. I wish she was being a nursemaid, now.”

“It’s a trap,” Aramis says, hands pressing to Rochelle’s wound. “Porthos.”

“Yeah, but he only names us three,” Porthos says, hurrying through. “He watched at the garrison, when it blew up. He saw d’Artagnan go in, but didn’t see him come out. The pup’s not left Constance’s side.”

“Her corsets,” Aramis says. He’s very pale. “They’re- I can’t save her, not here, not with what I’ve got. Porthos, run.”

Porthos nods and scoops her into his arms, straightening. 

“I’ll bring d’Artagnan back with me, we’ll save her, Athos. We’ve got an element of surprise, we’ll get him this time.”

He pauses a second longer then runs, leaving Aramis and Athos behind. He pelts through the streets, taking every short-cut he knows, ignoring the ache in his leg as it becomes firey and hot - he’s sure he’s bleeding again. He runs faster, heart beating out of his chest, racing through the back alleys, dashing through inn kitchens and crashing out the fronts. He’s run these streets too often, he knows them and they know him. His boots strike the cobbles, his hair dampens as he sweats, his knees protest. He races through the houses of his soldiers, Constance’s friends, up steps and twists through alleys and then he’s there. 

No one’s followed him and he’s cut ten minutes off the time. He pushes a gate at the back and clatters into the kitchen, startling the servants badly and causing a flap as he stumbles into the house-proper. He spots Brujon and gasps a breathless ‘where’, and Brujon’s running ahead of him now, calling for the physician. Porthos lays Rochelle on a bed in the back drawing room and Madame de la Trémouille comes bustling up, a physician at her shoulder. 

“Is she…?” Porthos asks, breath stuttering on the last word. 

“She’s alive,” the doctor says, already cutting away her clothes. 

“Her corset,” Porthos gasps, stilling the doctor’s hand a moment. “Her corsets.”

“I can see,” the doctor says, gently but firmly. 

“I know you,” Porthos says, squinting.

“I stitched your shoulder when you came home with a hole in your paldron that ran almost to the bone,” the doctor says, smiling. “Get out of my way, sir.”

Porthos steps back. He remembers the gentle no-nonsense. This is a good physician. He nods approval to Madame de la Trémouille and looks about. Constance is sat up on the side of a bed near the window and Porthos exclaims in joy, rushing to her and embracing her. d’Artagnan’s hovering nervously. 

“You’re well,” Porthos says, drawing back and cupping Constance’s face so he can examine her. “You are.”

“I am,” she agrees, pushing him away. “Persuade my husband of that, would you? He won’t stop fussing.”

“You gave us a scare,” Porthos says. “But I’m taking him away.”

“You are not,” d’Artagnan says. 

“We need you to help us save Sylvie,” Porthos says, looking up at him. 

“Go,” Constance says. “I’ll be fine, Charles. I’m going to get up slowly and test that out and then help Madame de la Trémouille. You’re in the way, sir musketeer.”

“Good,” Porthos says, looking about again and spotting Clairmont. His breath leaves his body, seeing him, Brujon knelt by the bed, his forehead resting on his clasped, bandaged hands, one of Clairmont’s held in the prayer. 

“He’s not going to make it,” Constance says, sadly. “I’m needed, and so are you, go.”

d’Artagnan hugs her tight. Porthos steps away to give them a little privacy but Constance gets up off the bed and hugs him, too, kisses his cheek and makes him promise to come back safe. He blushes at the care and rubs at his neck, trying to find words. d’Artagnan rolls his eyes and tugs him away. 

“That were nice,” Porthos mutters, touching his cheek as they hurry back through the kitchen causing another stir. 

“Come on,” d’Artagnan says. 

“Alright,  _ Charles _ ,” Porthos says, setting off to wind them up and around and about, in case anyone might be keeping tabs somehow somewhere. 

* * *

When they reach Christoph’s inn Athos is about to break a hole in the wall, by the looks. He glares but then relents and asks after Rochelle, lip between his teeth while he waits for an answer. Porthos gives him the right one and Athos nods already halfway out the door. They follow after him, d’Artagnan slipping away and circling around another way. Porthos, Athos and Aramis walk shoulder to shoulder, right in the front door as it were. They’re met and disarmed, Porthos picks out three, no, four men he recognises as being de Rosier’s and feels anger burning in him for that betrayal. 

He’d not thought, not even considered that de Rosier was anything except a nonety. Treville’s right - they underestimated him, and they always underestimate Grimaud, letting him get a step ahead. Not this time, Porthos resolves. This time they’re taking him out. They have a plan. Someone gives him a shove and when it makes his bad leg hurt he lets it give out, dumping him on one knee. Aramis helps him back up, hands steady and strong, guiding him back onto his feet and bending to check he’s ok, face full of concern. Athos is moving forwards still, pushing onwards, searching for Sylvie, and then he freezes.

Sylvie’s sat, Grimaud pacing up and down in front of her. When he spots Athos, Grimaud beams, welcoming him, waving an expansive gesture to get him to step forwards. Athos’s eyes are glued to Sylvie. Porthos looks her over too, searching for signs of injury. She looks tired and scared, though her fear doesn’t seem to be aimed entirely at Grimaud. She meets Athos’s eyes and lifts her head in defiance, and there’s an apology there, too. Perhaps for getting caught. Porthos’s guard prods him again and again he lets himself hit the floor. Sylvie gets to her feet and Grimaud’s face twists up in smug anger, a knife steadying, pointing at Sylvie. 

She says his name in question and Porthos gets to his feet to assure her. He hasn’t spent much time with her, he’d been angry with her to begin with but Constance told him about Sylvie’s printing and her majesty’s blessing and investment, and she’d been bubbling over with how excited and joyful Sylvie had been. Porthos looks at her now and checks, again, how she’s moving, if she’s hurt. She gives him a small smile, assurance in her turn, and he nods. 

“Take those two away and kill them,” Grimaud says. “Athos will stay with us, we have things to discuss.”

Porthos can’t remember when it was that Grimaud fixated on Athos but it’s worrying. There’s a deep hatred there for some reason. Porthos lets himself be led away, with Aramis, lets himself be blindfold and his hands tied, then he stands and waits, going through the different outcomes of this in his head. He hears a pistol safety click off and he drops to the ground, trusting d’Artagnan to be there. He pushed a blade into the sole of his boot years and years ago to get out of ropes, it’s just a question of bending - it’s in his bad leg. He twists and curls and his hands come loose, he rolls away and has the blindfold off as he comes up, his knife already in hand to drive into the closest body, pulling it up and letting the man fall away, his stunned eyes going glazed and still as Porthos turns away, jerking back from a sword and kicking out some legs. 

The fight is fast and dirty, quiet as he can make it, going for quick deaths. There are only four men and soon they’re all dispatched. Porthos looks around and sees Aramis a bit away, checking his pistols. He catches Porthos looking and nods. Porthos finds d’Artagnan already moving off, his movements stealthy. Porthos and Aramis follow, spreading out across the street and ringing Grimaud. He’s still got a knife, held against Sylvie’s stomach now. She catches their movement where Grimaud doesn’t and throws her head back in a sharp jerk that connects with a crack of breaking bone, the knife jerking into her. Athos yells and launches himself at Grimaud and they go rolling about, blood and hay and sharp steel. Athos goes under and Grimaud runs, leaving his men to fight. Aramis and d’Artagnan throw themselves into the fray, Porthos goes for Athos, and Sylvie bolts after Grimaud stooping to lift Athos’s pistol and running. She’s quick. 

“I’m fine,” Athos says, struggling to sit up, eyes wide with terror. “Go after her, Porthos. Porthos!”

Porthos goes, not looking back and not asking questions, not when Athos had looked like that, not with Athos’s fingers curling blooded against his knee, leaving stains on Porthos’s trousers. He races after Sylvie and sees her, hair and dresses flying out behind her, Grimaud losing ground. Grimaud turns, aiming for her, grin bright with red. Porthos gives a bellow and puts on a burst of speed, tossing whatever’s in his hand in an arc over Sylvie’s head. The flying pistol surprises Grimaud enough that he misses Sylvie and she’s got her shot, now, and she doesn’t miss. It hits Grimaud in the leg just above the knee and Grimaud cries out, going down, Sylvie still running and not stopping until she’s on him, arm around his head, panting. Porthos catches up and sees she has a knife buried in Grimaud’s stomach. 

“I’m wearing a corset you fool,” she hisses. “I’m not stupid enough to walk the streets of Paris with a man like you on the loose and not protect our child. You can’t take anything from me.”

“You’ve got him,” Porthos says, resting a hand in the small of her back. “You did good, you can let him go.”

Sylvie does, straightening, breathing hard, eyes bright. Grimaud falls onto the cobbles in a pool of blood and Sylvie turns to Porthos, face crumpling. 

“I’ve got you,” Porthos says, pulling her in and embracing her. She clings for a brief moment, then lets go and stands straight again. “A child, eh?”

“Athos wants to tell you himself,” Sylvie says. “Pretend, for him?”

“Anything, for him,” Porthos says, shrugging. It’s true. For Athos, anything in the world. “Go on, I’ll make sure.”

Sylvie goes, not looking back, anger burning her high and proud and beautiful as she moves away. Porthos watches her a moment before turning back, only to find Grimaud gone. He curses and sets off. There’s a trail, it’s not hard to follow: Grimaud is bleeding out. Porthos follows quickly, breaking into a run. He’s focussing on the blood and misses the shadow detaching itself from an alley and falling in behind him. He pauses at a crossroads for a moment, follows the trail with his eyes, and hears the sharp retort of a pistol behind him. Spinning, he sees his attacker, eyes wide, crumple to the floor revealing Treville, three palace guards running to catch up. 

“Thanks!” Porthos calls. 

Treville reloads and comes over to kick Porthos’s attacker over onto his back, shrugging when it’s not someone he recognises. 

“Saint Antoine is full of these, I think they must be the men the Prince de Condé mentioned, the rank and file from Lorraine’s army,” Treivlle says. “We’re helping out, thought you might need back up. Arrived a little late, we had trouble at de Arcy’s house. He made a fuss. Where are we going?”

“Grimaud,” Porthos says, turning to catch the trail again. 

They follow it for five more minutes then it stops abruptly at an inn. Porthos ducks in to ask questions and then ducks back out, disgusted. 

“Went in, waved a knife around, they gave him supplies. Let’s keep going, we might pick it up again,” Porthos says. 

They can’t find hide nor hair of Grimaud, though, and Porthos tells Treville he’s not surprised, as they walk back to Saint Antoine. He tells Treville what they’ve deduced about Grimaud’s upbringing. Treville already knows the facts, Porthos tells him their surmises, though. About leaving Juliet and Theresa, surviving alone in the woods, their assumption that he must have extensive military experience, that he’s probably a deserter. They know he made his money from Feron, drugging the poor evil bastard and getting his signature on all sorts, but he already had wealth before that so he’s manipulated and run and run, and run. Always running. 

“Coward,” Treville says, drawing his sword as they reach the refugee quarter again. There’s nothing to fight, though; the palace guard Treville brought have cleared up. 

They find Athos, Aramis, d’Artagnan, and Sylvie perched on some steps, Athos’s face all split with sunny smiles. He keeps ducking his head to hide it in Sylvie’s shoulder then holding his head up and beaming proudly about. He spots Porthos coming and disentangles himself, running over, gripping Porthos’s forearms. 

“What kept you?” Athos asks. 

“Grimaud’s gone,” Porthos says. “We tracked him as far as the Boar’s Head, tavern that way?” Athos nods. “Yeah, then he did another vanishing act. He crawled off to die. Sylvie got him right in the guts, gave a nice little tug up and all.”

Porthos isn’t sure about the last but it’ll reassure them all so he puts all his certainty behind it. Athos nods, clearly distracted. Porthos obligingly raises his eyebrows, feigning ignorance.

“I am to be a father, Porthos,” Athos says, breathy and gasping in afterwards, face breaking out into smiles again, drawing himself up to his height and resting his forehead against Porthos’s. “Sylvie is pregnant. I’m going to have a family.”

“Congratulations,” Porthos says, letting his own beaming smile spread, kissing both of Athos’s cheeks. Athos shakes his head and presses their foreheads together again. 

“I’m elated. A child,” Athos says. 

“That’s fantastic,” Porthos says. “I’m very pleased for you. Congratulations. A child!”

A laugh breaks loose and Athos laughs too, pulling back and tugging Porthos over to the others, pushing him to Sylvie to embrace and congratulate her, then looking around expectantly until they all hug variously; Porthos gets Aramis and Treville and Athos. 

“We’ve still got work,” Treville says. 

“I have a lot to rebuild here,” Sylvie says. “Grimaud stormed through Saint Antoine, he’s left chaos. Rochelle? Tell me. He took her.”

“I left her alive and in the best hands,” Porthos says. “Constance was helping out.”

“Good. I’ll help here, then head to the inn,” Sylvie says. 

“We do have work,” Porthos says, hugging Sylvie again and kissing her cheek, giving her the right address. “Hopefully this is the end, but Grimaud had a plan set in motion, let’s see what comes of that before settling on our laurels. We’re prepared at the points of attack.”

“I suggest putting our weight behind the gates, ready for whatever comes,” Aramis says. 

“Nah, let’s get a leg up,” Porthos says. “Regent, you and I can talk to de Rosier again, find out what he knows that he kept back. I think he’ll give enough to set up a couple of ambushes. We’ve got enough of an armoury from raiding Grimaud’s stashes, let’s set the road to surprise whoever gets through. Then we defend the gate.”

“Good,” Treville says. “The Louvre, then?”

“Aramis, d’Artagnan, redistribute troops to free up resources for Porthos,” Athos says. “I’ll inventory what we’ve got from the raids, head back to Christoph’s.”

They move off, Aramis embracing Athos and d’Artagnan laughing and kissing him before leaving arm in arm, Treville just ahead. Porthos goes to follow but Athos stops him, hand open against Porthos’s chest, gazing up at him. 

“Porthos,” Athos says. 

“Hey,” Porthos says, as Athos’s eyes fill with tears. 

“You saved them,” Athos says. “Your plan.”

Porthos pulls him in and Athos lets out a shuddering breath. They stand for a moment before Athos nods and they follow, Porthos’s arm around Athos’s shoulders, Athos’s around Porthos’ waist. 

“We’ve left palace guards for Sylvie, right?” Porthos murmurs. 

“Mm, they’re helping out offering strong arms but she knows,” Athos says. “Now. Sylvie tells me you’ve been chucking good pistols about.”

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “Worked good.”

“Don’t throw your weapons away you fool, you’re just disarming yourself.”

“Could’ve knocked him out,” Porthos says. 

“You could not have. It’s a stupid move, no good at all.”

“It worked didn’t it?”

“In what sense? You could have just shot him.”

“Didn’t think of that. Still think it worked.”

They bicker companionably as they go, Athos’s tight grip on Porthos easing. 


	5. Chapter 5

Treville sits above the gate, smoking, a skin of wine resting on his knee, his pistol and sword beside him waiting. He left his clothes at the Louvre, slipped his guard, and took some clothes from one of a guard’s room, and now he’s here, a general soldier, waiting for war with the rest of the men, right at home. He’s missed this. He takes a deep breath, blows out smoke, and smiles. He can taste the tension in the air. 

“You’ve done this a lot, sir?” one of the lads says. He’s stood a little along from Treville, on guard, jumpy and anxious. 

“Plenty,” Treville says. 

“Are we going to die?” the lad asks, voice… not breaking. Should’ve been breaking. This’ll be one of the ‘lads’ his musketeers enlisted. He’s not sure how he feels about this. This woman is very young, barely more than a girl. Maybe fifteen. There’s something familiar about her, too. 

“Pepin,” Treville says, clicking his fingers. Her chin comes up, looking back out on her watch. 

“Regent,” she whispers. Treville inclines his head, taking another deep lungful of smoke; so, they each have something on the other. An equitable situation. 

“We might die,” Treville says. “There’s no guarantees, in a fight.”

“Does it frighten you?” she asks. 

“Every day,” Treville says, smiling up at the sunshine, leaning back and stretching out his legs. “Best adrenaline rush I’ve ever had. Really makes life taste good, being this close to the end.”

“Some of us prefer to make friends to watch our backs, helps us stay alive,” Porthos says, climbing up to join them, sitting down beside Treville, shoving him. “You’re not meant to be here.”

“Nor are you,” Treville says, as Porthos unwraps a cloth full of apples and cheese, setting his pistol and sword ready. Porthos shrugs. 

“Athos and Aramis stopped paying attention,” Porthos says. 

“Why aren’t you meant to be here?” Pepin asks, head tilted slightly so she can peer curiously at Porthos without taking her eyes off the horizon. 

“Meant to be restin’,” Porthos says, face scrunching up in disgust. “Got a little shot in the leg, recently, and they’re a bit fussy, those friends I mentioned.”

“If your friends aren’t here, are you going to die?” Pepin asks. 

“Nah, got you to watch after my back, right Perrette?” Porthos says. 

“My name is Pierre, sir.”

“Yes sir,” Porthos says, giving a lazy salute.

He eats an apple, lies back, sets his hat over his face, and naps. Treville goes back to smoking. There’s a scrabbling under the gate and then heavy panting and then the rolly polly Mosqueton makes it to their vantage, sweaty and breathless. He sits for a minute, then remembers himself and manages a sort of sitting bow. 

“Regent, my master woke up,” Mosqueton says. Porthos sits up and Treville straightens. “He asked me to call you, I couldn’t find you. The musketeer d’Artagnan suggested checking here.”

Treville looks at Porthos, who’s already getting to his feet and gathering his weaponry and apples. Treville sighs and gets up as well, nodding to Mosqueton and gesturing for him to lead on. They reach the bottom of the gate at the same time as one of the messenger boys posted to keep an eye on their positions readying for ambush comes clattering up, riding Porthos’s Mercredi panting a little with the fast run. 

“I’ve got it,” Porthos says, peeling away and going to take his horse’s head. 

There aren’t many horses in Paris anymore, Porthos had been reluctant to give his mount up but had eventually agreed to its necessity. He goes to the horse, now, and looks to be questioning her and listening to her more than her rider. Treville gestures again for Mosqueton to go and follows quickly. He overtakes Mosqueton and leaves him behind soon enough, his own horse is close by, left out of the way, tucked out of sight. He pulls on the jacket he left there and his own boots, considers that good enough. He makes it to the Louvre in good time and makes up for his clothing with his stride, daring anyone to ask questions. Aramis is waiting outside Henri’s rooms and doesn’t look impressed by Treville. 

“You’ll want to hear this, regent,” Aramis says. “And then you’ll want to  _ stay here _ .”

“As you say,” Treville says. “I’ve been here all along, in the gardens. If I can’t fight I’ve got to get rid of my restlessness somehow.”

“Porthos sent word the moment he found you, don’t try it,” Aramis says. 

“Traitor,” Treville says, brushing past Aramis and into Henri’s rooms. He pauses and sticks his head back out. “You might send a horse for poor Mosqueton, he’s run all the way to the gate, he need not run all the way back.”

“I’m sure he’ll walk,” Henri says, from the settee. Treville turns, shutting the doors on Aramis, and sees the Prince de Condé lying down, limp and wan. Treville hurries over, kneeling beside him. “Mosqueton rarely runs.”

“I don’t think you called me here to talk of your manservant,” Treville says. 

“The men who accosted Porthos and myself,” Henri says, shutting his eyes. “I knew them.”

“Porthos’s friend killed them,” Treville says. “She said she found your guard murdered, I’m afraid.”

“She either lied or… my guard is, I suppose, larger than some expect, and not all are visible. They were my men, Jean,” Henri says. “Or recently became so; they were at Bracieux with me, had been his.”

“Do you think the baron-”

“No,” Henri says, smiling. “Good god that man’s loyal to the point of blindness. Not the baron. I was not the only guest of the baron.”

“Who?” Treville says. 

“Agache,” Henri says. 

“He’s on the council,” Treville says, clambering up. “He knows some of our plan.”

“We have a plan?” Henri asks. 

“Of course.”

“My men. Some are here, more will be coming from Bracieux, I sent for the rest of my retinue. I arranged to meet them just outside the city, if I’m not there this evening, they’ll come for me.”

“You were planning to attack my city,” Treville says. 

“Not attack, I wasn’t sure who to trust. I have royal blood, you had Gaston assassinated,” Henri says, lightly. 

“I didn’t,” Treville says, then winces, and admits, “Not yet, anyway. I thought he might still have use. Point taken. Gaston is not my friend, however, and nor is he a good man.”

“Louis wasn’t always a good man and you were loyal to him. People win your loyalty, it’s not bought with good deeds far away,” Henri says. 

“You won my loyalty.”

“Not yet, I think.”

“You won Porthos’s,” Treville says. “That counts for a hell of a lot. Ride with me? We need to shift our plans and shut Agache down. He doesn’t know we killed Grimaud, or about de Rosier... but he knows we’re planning for an attack of some kind and have posts outside the gates.”

As they head out, Henri asks ‘we’ve killed Grimaud?’ and ‘de Rosier? Who’s de Rosier?’, and so Treville tells him the tale, even the parts he’s heard only second hand through Athos or Porthos. He finds the magistrate Bellavoix, the only member of his council who has proved consistently trustworthy. Treville gives him quick instructions to find Aramis and retain Agache, not let him get word out. It might be too late but Treville isn’t going to worry about that; the extent of Agache’s intelligence is small and Treville’s more worried about what he might learn, loose in the Louvre. With that done, he and the Prince de Condé slip into less recognisable clothes, Henri lets his hair down and Treville, who can’t really disguise his beard or hair, not now it’s cut so neatly, grabs a cloak with a hood. Mosqueton is just arriving as they reach the stable yard and Henri calls him over, scribbling a letter and sending him off again. They both take horses and over take the poor man, heading for the gate. They’re stopped but Treville just nudges his cloak back and Pierre Pepin, still on duty, whispers something and they’re through, streaking across the countryside. 

They check their positions first, the places Treville mentioned to his council he moves (he didn’t say much and he’d said they were setting a watch not an ambush). It’s not a bad thing, in the end; knowing spots the invaders are going to be avoiding is useful. He smiles as he redeploys his men, keeping a watch for Porthos. Who they don’t see. They ride for an inn half an hour out, Henri leaping from the saddle as they clatter into the yard and his legs going from under him, bringing his men running to his side. Treville has them all fall in and then, when Henri identifies one of his captains, he has the captain comb through the men, picking out any who might have been Agache’s men or might think to turn that way. They lock those men in the cellar before mounting again. They have to ride slower, now; twenty percent or so of Henri’s men are on foot. 

The first skirmish they come upon is expected. One of the ambushes, along the road. It’s a busy fight - they hadn’t expected this many to come via the road, too unprotected. There are a few seasoned fighters among women from Sainte Antoine, and Porthos is there, they’re holding out. As Treville arrives with aid Porthos roars and downs three men, turning and yelling at the others, allowing the last standing to be taken to the ground. Treville comes to Porthos as the fight is won. He reigns in, looking down at Porthos in as sarcastic a manner as he can. 

“I’m not here, regent,” Porthos says, face graver than Treville expects, coming to stand at Treville’s stirrup. “Henri, head to the west, they’re going to need aid there. Who’ve you got? Is Captain Desessarts here? Ah, there you are captain. Good. Carry on down this way, there were some that got through and I think there’s a reason there were more than we thought on the road. Chase them down?”

Henri bows his head and the men split, heading in the two directions indicated. Porthos turns to those he was leading and sends them in yet another direction to shore up another position, then turns back to Treville. 

“So?” Treville says. “I was going to head up that nice army and ride to the rescue of Paris. Now what?”

“Now,” Porthos says, grimly, turning as the messenger boy comes leading Mercredi. “We’ve got a mission, sir. Will you come with us, boy?” 

“I ain’t walking back to Paris, sir,” the boy says, scowling. Porthos grins and lifts him up into the saddle behind.

“You remember Desessarts, right?” Porthos asks Treville. 

“He was a wonderful musketeer,” Treville grumbles. “I don’t forgive Henri his stealing of the man.”

“Desedssarts is from Gascony, did you know that?” Porthos says. 

“I did not,” Treville says. “Porthos.”

“This, sir, is mademoiselle de Rosier,” Porthos says, nudging the kid at his back. “She was not supposed to be in Paris, and was doubly not suppose to join up in the army as a soldier.”

“You sound like my mother,” mademoiselle de Rosier says, scowling. 

“Your mother's a very sound woman,” Porthos says. “She overheard some of the men talking.”

“She did, did she? And what did she hear? And why are we playing this game?”

“You’re not going to like it,” Porthos says. “Agache-”

“I know about Agache,” Treville says. 

“ _ Agache _ ,” Porthos says, scowling at the interruption, “has a lot of influence in  _ Savoy _ .”

“Oh bugger,” Treville says. 

“As you say,” Porthos says. “Now, the Duke of Savoy has little fondness for either of us. There is one man he likes, though.”

“If you mean-”

“Of course I mean Cluzet,” Porthos says, interrupting in his turn, tugging on his reins and heading into a farmyard. Serge and Athos are sat on a wall, but when they see Porthos and Treville they hurry inside, returning with Cluzet, bound and blinded. Athos shoves him onto Jeudi and mounts behind him, Serge struggling into a saddle also. Treville casts a critical eye over their party then raises an eyebrow at Porthos. “Everyone’s fighting, they’re needed. Athos is riding to the border with us then returning. I think some of Savoy’s men are here already, they were to rendezvous with those guys on the road.”

“How do you figure that?” Treville asks. 

“Heard them talking before we ambushed them,” Porthos says, shrugging. “Come on, let’s speed this up, we’re spread thin, we can’t face another army.”

“Porthos, Savoy doesn’t even know we have Cluzet, our releasing him will put our spies in danger and probably just incense Savoy. Besides, you can’t just give away prisoners,” Treville says, as they break into a gallop. 

“Of course,” Porthos says. “Which is why you’re here.”

“Cluzet knows too much,” Treville says. 

“Work something out, then,” Porthos says. 

Treville, aggravated and tired, works something out. They’re met by the Duchess of Savoy, which is helpful. She sees Cluzet first and he, blindfold, does not see her. She looks at Treville for a long time before going to call the servants to get her husband. She should have let them know that he was building an army, readying to send it against Paris. The fact that she hadn’t either means danger or disloyalty. Treville’s not sure which he hopes for. Her relief at seeing them suggests the former. Treville’s plan solidifies and by the time Savoy comes striding out Treville is ready. Cluzet, riding with Treville the last stretch, Athos turning back, slithers off the horse with Treville when he dismounts, drawing Savoy’s attention. The duke draws his sword and advances. 

“Cluzet,” he grits out, between his teeth, eyes boring into Treville. “I knew he was in Paris.”

“We found him amongst the Spanish prisoners, at Alsace,” Treville says. “They tortured him.”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” Savoy says, still advancing. “Cluzet?”

The man nods. He’s old, now, and has no fight left in him. He’s not been tortured or kept too uncomfortable but he’s been locked up for a long time. Treville’s not a hundred percent sure he won’t just open his mouth and tell Savoy everything. 

“Is it true?” Christine Marie asks. 

Cluzet shakes his head. 

“See?” the duke says. “I’ll run you through, captain Treville.”

“Like I’d let you do that,” Porthos says. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t drawn a weapon, but the mild calm is threat enough. As if he needn’t prepare, needn’t expend effort. “Stay where you are, duke, and put your sword away.”

“Pass Cluzet to us,” Savoy says. 

“You’ve broken the treaty,” Treville says, pleased when Savoy starts. He’d never been a good politician. “Believe what you will of Cluzet, it matters not to me. We will return him, though, if you stand your men down. As a gesture of goodwill. Since we rescued him from the Spanish he’s only wanted to come home. Cluzet in return for no march on Paris.”

“Or?” Savoy mocks, looking at Porthos, Serge sat behind a little ways. 

Porthos blinks, long and slow, then nods to the house, behind Savoy. Christine Marie gives a little caught gasp. Mademoiselle de Rosier is coming out of the house, a pistol to the side of Louis Amadeus’s head. The boy’s no longer a child but having a pistol held to your temple isn’t easy to escape from, especially when your keeper has you in a choke hold, a hand in your hair, an ankle hooked around yours ready to trip you down marble steps. Cluzet starts to laugh, cracked, his voice too-long unused. Soon he’ll talk. Treville hasn’t got long. 

“Stand down, Savoy. You don’t have the power for this. What do you think will be the first thing Gaston does on the throne, anyway? He’ll invade Savoy, to shore up his position.”

“He’s an ass,” Savoy says. 

“The men who are putting him there are not. Agache,” Treville says. “de Rosier. De Chevreuse. None of these are soft on the Savoy question.”

“Madam de Chevreuse is friends with the duchess,” Savoys says. 

“Her brother, however, is not,” Treville says. 

“I’ll stand down for Cluzet,” Savoy says. “If you give me leave to set taxes.”

Treville nods, and Louis Amadeus is let go, mademoiselle de Rosier escaping the guards and vanishing again. They scramble to negotiate, a quick paced thing that runs away from them and settles somewhere that neither of them feel like they’ve come out on top. Cluzet’s managed to find the duchess and is staring at her through his blindfold. She says something and he laughs again. Treville’s out of time. He unbinds Cluzet’s hands and pushes him forwards. The man stumbles, manages a few steps before a shot rings out. Everyone scatters. Cluzet is lying in the dust. Savoy’s men run in the direction of the shot and return dragging one of Savoy’s own men, mademoiselle de Rosier following sobbing, her hair let down, wearing a dress from somewhere, barefoot. 

“I saw him,” she says, gulping, pointing a trembling hand at the soldier. He stutters and objects and explains that it was  _ her _ . 

“This?” Savoy scoffs, gesturing to the child, barely looking. 

“She’s one of the beggars at the gate, she must have slipped in with the French,” the duchess says. 

“I’ve seen her among them,” one of Savoy’s gentlemen says, which is a bonus. 

“You,” Savoy says, advancing on his soldier. 

“He is one of Agache’s men,” Treville says, mildly. “I imagine he was aiming for you, duke.”

Savoy looks suspiciously at Treville, but it’s his own man caught with the gun. The soldier will be tortured until he admits the French put him up to it, but the French includes Agache. Treville feels half bad about it. He looks down at Cluzet. 

“I am sorry, my good duke,” Treville says. “He really was captured by the Spanish.”

“I’ve got the prisoner lists from Alsace,” Porthos says. “I’ll make sure you have a copy, along with your minister’s possessions. There are letters amongst his things, perhaps they’ll shed light for you.”

“Perhaps,” Savoy says, stiffly.

“Look at the back of his neck,” Porthos says. Savoy does, and finds a Spanish brand. Treville doesn’t know how it got there, he’d only thought up the Spanish idea on their way here. 

“He does look like he’s been with the Spanish,” the duchess murmurs, crouching by her husband, pulling away the cloak Cluzet is wrapped in and revealing Spanish colours. “And when we were in Paris we searched, he wasn’t there.”

“I won’t be made a fool!” Savoy roars, leaping to his feet and drawing his pistol. Porthos’s Mercredi shifts. 

“You are not a fool,” Treville assures. “Merely… mistrustful, perhaps rightfully so, there is not a good history between us. I hope that our return of your minister will aid relations, and I invite you to Paris. You are of course always welcome. It would be nice for the king to meet his cousin, how is Louis Amadeus?”

“He is well,” Savoy says, grudging, holstering his weapon. “Or he was until you took him prisoner! You’d better hope your soldier runs fast and far. What do I get now, for standing down? Cluzet is dead. I think it likely you had him killed, one way or another, Captain Treville.”

“I won’t let that pass a third time,” Porthos warns. Treville gives him an exasperated look. 

“Everything negotiated still stands,” Treville says. “And France will pay reparations for Cluzet. We should have realised sooner he was among those freed at Alsace, and we should have brought him straight here. He was in Paris, once freed, we looked after him as well we might have but he’d have been better home.”

“I’m sure,” Savoy says. 

“The Spanish are notorious for kidnapping, they need slaves for their ships,” one of Savoy’s gentlemen says. 

“I’ve heard stories,” another says. 

“Reparations,” Savoy says, nodding. “Fine. And a tax. The French use our border, in your war, Treville. We wish to be paid.”

“Very well,” Treville says. “Porthos will remain to discuss terms, I must return to Paris however, I have matters to attend to. Captain du Vallon is aid to the queen and sits on the council, I’m sure you have heard of his father, the Marquis Belgard? He is certainly in a position to negotiate on France’s behalf for the moment.”

Porthos bows to Treville, dismounting and passing his reins to a stable-hand who comes to take them, leading Mercredi away. Mademoiselle de Rosier has vanished, no one’s taken another thought for her. Treville remounts and leaves Porthos offering to question the traitor soldier who shot Cluzet. Treville and Serge ride out of the Duke’s house and pluck mademoiselle de Rosier from the road, hiding her in Treville’s cloak for the gallop back onto French soil and toward Paris. The battle is still raging when they return, Grimaud’s army is much smaller now after the series of ambushes, but they are still a multitude pressing the gate. Treville’s picked up wounded men who can still fight and he does, afterall, come with a sort of rag tag army. They come up behind the press, yelling and roaring, spreading in a long line. Treville’s soon fighting, leaping from his horse as they get to close quarters, sword flashing. 

He finds Aramis and Pierre Pepin and they fight back to back, Treville is, as per Porthos’s wisdom, glad to be fighting with friends. It’s a long fight and carries on even as the sky darkens. Treville shouts instructions and their men converge on him, rallying and fighting harder, shouting louder. Aramis calls for them to thin the crowd and in the dark they spread out, leading the enemy further, distant from one another, fighting with their backs to the city wall. Henri comes out of the dark, a rally of men with him, and they cut a swathe, spreading quickly, pressing the enemy between the wall bristling with Parisian swords, and the horses. 

Just as they are tiring, their enemy weakening also but not quite yielding, there’s a cry of and the thunk of an arrow hitting its target - a man escaping the melee, and then another. Treville looks around, but it’s the enemy who are falling so he doesn’t question it, just takes down the men nearest to him. The arrows thin things out and as the enemy finally begins to give, a rider appears from the trees, another at his back, coming with bows drawn, running down some of the men who flee before wheeling around and returning. 

They finish it as the sun comes up, those still mounted chasing down the last remnants of the force, save the two newcomers - they dismount and are quickly embraced by Aramis and introduced as Elodie and Bastien, friends made in a forest somewhere. The reason for their not revealing themselves sooner or giving chase quickly becomes clear; Elodie has a child wrapped tight against her body, tied to her front. Treville sends them into the city, to the address Porthos had sent the injured from Christoph’s inn to. Treville and Aramis search out Athos and d’Artagnan and together they scour the field. 

“Grimaud isn't here,” Athos says. 

“So Porthos was right, and he’s dead,” d’Artagnan says. 

“It’s over?” Pierre Pepin asks. She’s followed them, along with mademoiselle de Rosier. “Mary would like to see her father, regent.”

“She shall,” Treville says. “But first she will see her mother, and until then she will stay at the Louvre under the care of Madame Bois-Tracy, quite a formidable woman.”

He takes her there himself and leaves her in Bois-Tracy’s capable hands. He himself returns to his rooms, to find Henri asleep on his settee, necessitating him having to find his actual bed. He sinks into it and breathes out a long, groaning sigh of relief. He’s asleep before he’s fully aware of being horizontal. 

* * *

There’s a lot of clear up. Porthos stays in Savoy as long as he’s welcome, to avoid it, but his welcome is thin to begin with, and there’s still plenty to do when he gets back, disappointingly. He finds Athos at the house, though, in the garden, sitting with Sylvie and, to Porthos’s astonishment and joy, Elodie. She’s come to Paris with her child and Bastien and Porthos stands, staring at them, until she comes and puts the child in his arms. She’s tiny, just a little bundle. He holds her, gazing down into her sleeping face, then stares at Elodie. 

“Why are you here?” Porthos asks. 

“The village wasn’t safe anymore,” Elodie says, smiling, then it falls into uncertainty. “You made us feel safe, Porthos, I wanted that again.”

“You have it, of course, anything” Porthos says hurriedly. “My protection is yours. Is hers. She’s beautiful.”

“Isn’t she?” Elodie says, smile returning. 

“Porthos,” Athos murmurs. 

“What?” Porthos says. “Do you have a name for her, Elodie?”

“Not yet,” Elodie says, biting her lip. “I haven’t had much time, I’ve been worried.”

“Never mind, she’ll find her name,” Porthos says. 

“We’re needed at the palace,” Athos says. “And you’re not getting out of helping rebuild the garrison.”

“Always duty,” Porthos grumbles. “Only just got here, already you’re calling me away.”

“We’ll be here when you return,” Elodie says. 

“Surely there’s no rush?” Porthos asks Athos.

Athos just raises an eyebrow and indicates Aramis and d’Artagnan waiting in the doorway. So, a rush afterall. Porthos gives the baby back with a sigh, pressing his lips to her little hand, and goes with the others to the Louvre. They walk, the four of them. Athos links arms with him, still feeling grateful clearly. He’s warm at Porthos’s side and steady, steps light, joy radiating off him like sunshine. Porthos gives his arm a squeeze. 

“Do you think Grimaud is really a hundred percent dead?” d’Artagnan asks, mouth full of something, walking backwards in front of them.

“Watch it,” Aramis says, grabbing him to keep him from backing into a woman with a basket. “Sorry, madame.”

“It’s mademoiselle,” she says, glaring at them as they troop past trying not to laugh. They do as soon as they’re by her and she curses them not-very-quietly setting them jogging to get away. 

“d’Artagnan, you’re a menace,” Athos says, holding onto his hat. “He’s dead.”

Porthos chimes in reassurances too, and Aramis gives a soliloquy on stomach ‘surest way to die’ wounds, walking ahead with d’Artagnan, gesturing. Porthos and Athos exchange a look. Stomach wounds might kill surely, but they kill slow and if Grimaud got help… this  _ is _ Grimaud. He survives. 

“Like a bug,” Porthos says. “Them beatles we used to get at the garrison, nothing’d do for them.”

Athos nods grimly. 

“He’s probably dead,” Porthos says. 

Athos nods again. Somewhere along the way he’s let go Porthos’s arm, hunched into himself. Between leaving the front and Sylvie’s getting captured, something happened to Athos, Porthos is sure. Perhaps it was Grimaud beating him at Sainte Antoine, taking him unawares like that and leaving him injured. Or perhaps it was being poisoned, the raging fever. Or Aramis being taken. He isn’t sure, but somewhere Athos and Grimaud got tangled up together, knit tight. 

Porthos had expected d’Artagnan to swear bloody revenge for blowing Constance up but he hasn’t yet, so far he seems glad Constance is alive, pleased that the garrison is being rebuilt, happy they’re all together, excited about Sylvie’s baby. Aramis seems settled, Porthos watches him now and decides that, yes; settled is right. Treville’s promised him some role that will keep him close to the young king, Aramis told Athos and Porthos about their conversation. Treville’s father to them all, really. He’s waiting for them at the Louvre, arms crossed, and glowers about as if they really are badly behaved children. 

“Savoy’s good,” Porthos says, testing the waters as they walk. “Pretty nice house, plenty of good food.” Porthos grins. “Loads of wine. The duchess of Savoy is wonderful company, we had some nice conversations. Really-”

“Porthos,” Treville snaps. 

“Christine Marie de Bourbon, duchess of Savoy, is well,” Porthos says. “The war with Spain meant she couldn’t contact us, she isn’t particularly happy that Louis XIII is dead, may he rest in peace, but she’ll support and protect his son. Not displeased that you’re reagent, sir. She likes you.”

“Keep that tone out of any future discussions,” Treville says, waving them into his rooms. 

His lips twitch, however. It’s probably not Porthos who’s pissed him off this time. Porthos sprawls on Treville’s settee and helps himself to the wine out on the table, the others joining him. 

“I didn’t call you here,” Treville says. 

“Why not?” Porthos says. “This is good wine, we’ve won, we saved Paris.”

“ _ I _ did not call you here,” Treville repeats, taking the bottle from Aramis before he can take a drink from it. “The queen called you here.”

They get up again and troop out behind Treville, trying to straighten their clothes and make themselves look reputable. Porthos, having travelled by horse for miles, is tired and grimy and dusty and probably the worst of them. Considering that to be unfair and not his fault, he ruffles up Athos’s hair to get it tangled and some dust in, and gets some of the mud off his boots onto Aramis’s. He can’t get d’Artagnan before Treville brings them before the queen and court, going to stand beside her. Porthos bows, noticing that, as ever, Aramis’s bow is slight and his eyes meet the queen’s. Porthos stumbles into him and shoves him lower. 

“You have all served Paris admirably,” the queen says. “I have called you here to offer you recompense. d’Artagnan, the regent has informed me that there is an opening for a captain and you’d suit, I think this is what you want?” 

“Yes, very much your highness,” d’Artagnan says. 

“I am also making you a gift of some land, and I am finding a title for you. It won’t be much, but it will give you a place at court. Aramis, you will, I hope, accept the regent's offer to be minister? Excellent. And the Prince de Condé has made a very generous gift of land to you. Athos, you only wish to retire and be left in peace, I understand?”

“Athos,” Porthos hisses, glaring. “When’d she ask and why’d you not ask for more?”

“Shht,” Athos says, stamping hard on Porthos’s feet with the heel of his boot as he bows. “The queen is talking, Porthos.”

“Yeah yeah,” Porthos whispers back, trying not to wince or yell - that bloody hurt. 

“Madame d’Artagnan has spoken to me about Sylvie Hubert’s efforts with education in the city. Since the death of the Countess de Larroque I have been keeping an eye out for opportunities to support such efforts. I would like to give Sylvie Hubert a printing house. I understand that you, Athos, would like to leave Paris. However, I would like to ask you to stay and help with this education programme. I am offering not just the printing house, but also an estate near the city, it isn’t large, it’s mostly farmland, and a house here in Paris. I hope you won’t turn me down?” 

“It is for Sylvie Hubert to decide, your majesty,” Athos says, straightening up and meeting the eyes of anyone who might have a problem with him not marrying Sylvie. “She is my best friend, and very dear to me, so I will stay if she asks it.”

“Very well,” the queen says, lips twitching but not quite smiling, still being regal and impressive. “And you, Porthos du Vallon. Athos has told me that you have been a lieutenant for a very long time. He has also given me, the regent, and the council, rather a lot of evidence that you have in fact been acting as captain for the past few years and that you have acted as commandant. We have heard from three generals suggesting the same thing. We have also heard rather a lot about your skill with strategy, your quick mind, and how good you are at thinking under pressure. With all this in mind, I had suggested promoting you to lieutenant colonel. I was overruled.”

Porthos is too busy gaping and being astounded about all the rest of it to be disappointed about his lack of promotion but there’s a satisfied stirring in the crowd that makes him defensive. He lifts his chin and gazes straight ahead, standing to attention, refusing to be ashamed. He has done all that, and more. He deserves a promotion even if they’re not giving him one and he won’t let anyone make him think otherwise. All of this praise, all this has to be heaped on before the queen can reward him. The others she just gave stuff to. But he needs these lists.   


“The Prince de Condé, the Marquis de Arcy, the Marquis de Belgard, Madame Clerbaux, Madame de Chevreuse,” the queen says, “among others, the list is rather long, have brought me, the regent, and the council, more. Somehow,” the queen side-eyes Treville here who looks innocent as a lamb, “our discussion leaked and rather a lot of the French nobility have come forward to make us aware that you have, in fact, done rather a lot for this city, this country, all of us. And so, with this in mind, I was overruled. The council has instead decided to give you two fifes, you are to hold the title of Marquis. You will also carry the military rank of captain, I am sure you will soon distinguish yourself and we can promote you to the rank we would like to give you.”

Porthos’s heart had stopped at his father’s name. The rest of that goes over his head and takes a few long, silent moments to sink in. He looks up at Treville, who’s looking right back at him, stern and as proud and unashamed as Porthos had been attempting to seem just moments ago. Porthos searches Treville’s face, his eyes, for anything. Treville softens and gives a small nod, smile warm and encouraging. 

“That’s very generous,” Porthos manages, bowing low. 

The court break into a smattering of applause, as it seems the queen is done, and then break into small murmuring groups. Every eye in the room feels like it’s boring into Porthos. Treville strides from the room, out the back, and the queen and the four of them all follow. He leads them to private rooms and gestures them all to sit. 

“That was a nice masquerade,” Treville says. “Now tell them your plan.”

“I will have a ceremony,” the queen says, facing him down. “I will celebrate and honour my son, the king, and the people who have given much to protect him. Paris has given so much, I  _ will _ reward it, sir.”

“By taking the king to the Cathedral,” Treville says. 

Porthos keeps his snort carefully inward. There’s something hysterical about ceremony and pomp being a reward for the poor, the hurting, the abandoned men and women of Sainte Antoine, the soldiers, the men who came home with pieces missing. As if the king and queen could ever honour Clairmont, or understand his sacrifice. To give your life wholeheartedly and unaskingly to your country. Porthos has done it since he was a child, just as Clairmont is now. They’re children, these boys who get sent out to the slaughter. Porthos realises the rest of them are talking and tunes back in, finding Athos’s eyes on him. 

“What are your thoughts, Marquis?” Athos asks, bending his head a little in deference. Porthos hates that from Athos of all people, but he also feels a thrill of pride at the title and Athos quickly meets Porthos’s eyes with a warm smile, proud in his turn. 

“I think it might help Paris to publicly celebrate what has been a difficult few years. Many difficult years. I think it might be a deception to promise them much better,” Porthos says. “Unless there are real plans.”

“Porthos,” Treville says. 

“You have spoken my name an awful many times today, regent,” Porthos says. “It’s daft to pretend this is the end of things, we’re still at war. However, it is a good idea to publicly acknowledge the king. It is a good idea to celebrate victories, it will help moral. People like to know the man they serve, the boy they pledge themselves to. So, yes, I am behind the idea. Paris is dangerous, it won’t be safe. But it will pretend safety, and give people a badly needed scrap of hope. We can protect him, sir.”

“I think that has been proved,” the queen says, beaming at Porthos. 

It hasn’t been, Porthos thinks. He meets Treville’s eyes. He has merely proven that he will risk all for his friends. He risked Louis the XIV to save Treville, that isn’t something that he’d thought of himself. Treville nods, again, though. And so Porthos agrees and accepts the praise. 


	6. Chapter 6

Paris is heaving with people, the next day. Treville rides in the carriage with Anne and Louis, the boy king kneeling so he can see out of the window and wave back to the people shouting and waving flags at him. Treville hands Anne down out of the coach and lifts Louis out, too, walking at their shoulder, projecting an image of calm protection a step behind the family. In the Cathedral he stands with Louis for the short ceremony, places a crown on his blond hair, the small child looking solemnly up at him. He rests a hand on Louis’ shoulder, promising to help him bear the weight. Promising himself as much as Louis. His musketeers are at the front, all of them in dress uniform. They look like gentlemen. Soldiers, but gentlemen as well. Elodie is on Porthos’s arm and Treville realises that Porthos isn’t holding his cloak oddly - he’s holding the bloody baby. Of course he is. And paying no attention whatsover to anything but her. 

Treville smiles and looks at Athos, Sylvie at his side glowing with pride, at d’Artagnan and Constance hand in hand. Treville hasn’t told them yet that d’Artagnan’s commission is at the garrison here, that Athos has long ago decided to leave. Nor has he told Porthos that he is to return to the front. He fought long and hard against that one but the war is the reason the council want Porthos promoted. He’ll be allowed to decline to fight, but the orders are there for captain du Vallon to return to the front. Even as heir to Marquis de Belgard (now acknowledged) and holder of the title in his own right with his own land, Porthos is still, in much of the city’s eyes, nothing more than _du Vallon_ , as spat by the judge all those years ago. If Porthos wants it, Treville will overrule them all and fuck diplomacy. He had got the impression that Porthos might want to return, however. And lastly there’s Aramis, gazing at Louis with so much pride and wonder. Treville smiles. 

His contented mood and the ceremony is interrupted by the crash of the double doors thrust inwards, screams, and the clatter of guards. Everyone turns and Porthos yells out an ‘oi!’, passing the baby to Elodie and striding through the crowd, into the knot of soldiers. There’s yelling and Porthos roars something indistinguishable and then is striding back up, people falling away to reveal a woman with fly away blond hair twisted and plaited down her back, dressed in rags and a musketeer cloak. She has a bloody sword drawn, and she’s dragging something. She passes Porthos and tosses the body she’s dragging at the feet of Louis and Anne, dropping the sword, a knife, a musketeer’s pauldron, and the cloak after it. 

“This man invaded, your majesties,” she says, bowing a mockingly deep bow. “I have dealt with it. I didn’t kill him, do with him as you please. Sorry I can’t stay, I have business.”

She turns and catches Porthos, hovering behind her and trying to shush her, face a grimace (Treville recognises the look. It often comes with a muttered curse and less-muttered ‘uh oh’, and usually precedes rather a lot of trouble). The woman grips Porthos by the shoulders, then headbutts him before swaggering out. Porthos hurries after her, whispering apologies but with a grin absolutely splitting his face. Treville looks down and recognises Grimaud, lying on his back, eyes open and moving. His hands and feet are bound, a gag over his mouth, blood around his nose. 

“Is he dead?” Louis whispers. “Gosh how exciting.”

“Louis,” Anne says, aghast, all colour drained from her face, catching the king before he can go and poke at Grimaud. 

Treville wonders why he’s not moving. Athos comes over and rolls him on his side, though, and his back is full of thin pieces of metal, skewers and bits of rusty fence, nails and scrap. Athos lets go and Grimaud falls onto his back, choking on his gag and gasping for breath, screaming into the cloth. 

“I could behead him, your majesty,” Athos says, looking up at Anne.

“That would be exciting,” Louis whispers, trying to escape his mother’s skirts to get a peak. 

“No,” Anne says. 

“Ok,” Athos says, shrugging. “The pillory, then, and perhaps lashes.”

“Put him in the pillory, we’ll consider it later,” Treville says. “We were in the middle of something.”

Porthos comes back in with the guards and directs them over to Grimaud, who is lifted and dragged back out again. The ceremony continues as if there was no interruption, and this time is concluded. They really do need a Cardinal, he should be here doing this really. Treville looks around and his eyes rest on Aramis. A man can be both minister and priest, Aramis is all but a priest already it wouldn’t take much to get him sorted out properly. And then to rise through the ranks, that might take a few years. Treville moves on. 

They’ll be given a cardinal soon, Treville is sure. Until then he has the bishop, who is conducting business today and is now finishing up. The king and queen leave and Treville follows at their shoulder, grabbing Aramis as he passes to make sure Aramis remembers he is minister now and is not returning to the garrison. He’s needed to sort out the Grimaud mess. As is Porthos, but Porthos has already slipped away and probably has everything in hand. When Aramis lifts the king into the carriage and climbs in after him, Treville knows that he has been right - Aramis will make a wonderful minister and will not have trouble negotiating this line between fatherhood and service. 

There’s so much to do. France is at war, Treville has a man to sentence, with the help of his council and his generals. Speaking of, he has to refill his council, seeing as half of them turned out to be traitors. They have a new minister. And that’s not even starting on the complications of running a bloody country. However, Paris is secure and has a new captain of the musketeers to watch over her; France has a new king who the people seem to love; and, most important to Treville, the boys he’s helped raise to be powerful, wonderful men seem to have found their places in the world. Treville smiles and lets himself, for the brief passage of time between the Cathedral and the Louvre, be happy and not worry. 

* * *

Porthos inches up to Elodie on the bench, guilt eating at him. She’s sat with the sleeping baby and smiles at him, ignoring him being weird. He gets up and sits properly next to her, leaning back. It’s warm, the sun out for once. They’re at the garrison. Porthos is meant to be at the Louvre, the regent has been awfully insistent on that part of his new duties. It’s a lot of meetings and it’s so boring, though. Porthos has escaped. Elodie sighs, shifting the baby as she stirs a bit. 

“I’m going to marry you,” Porthos says. “Take care of you both, you’ll get my pension if I die.”

“Alright,” Elodie says. It’s a foregone conclusion really, not a surprise to anyone. 

“I don’t expect anything of you. I’m not asking you to be in love,” Porthos says. 

“Are you in love?”

“Um,” Porthos scratches the back of his neck, eyes unerringly finding Athos. He winces. Elodie starts to laugh and Porthos looks at her, affronted. 

“I’m sorry,” Elodie says, passing the baby over to him. Porthos is distracted by her and doesn’t really think about Elodie or Athos or anything, just the tiny human being who is now his to take care of. “Porthos, my husband died very recently, I loved him very much. I’m still grieving for him. I think you’re wonderful, but I’m not in love with you. We don’t need to be, not like them.”

She gestures to where d’Artagnan has just swept Constance into a short spin of a dance, hand in her hair, and where she is now kissing him, looking up at him like he’s sunshine. He is a bit like sunshine, Porthos thinks. Her gesture also takes in Sylvie and Athos, working side by side, Athos trying to keep her from doing too much and her playfully laughing at him and batting him away. 

“Why’s that sort of love any better?” Porthos grumbles, looking back down at the baby. “She needs a name. Look at her eyes, she’s woke up.”

“She’s beautiful,” Elodie says, leaning toward him to look. Her head against his shoulder. He feels an overwhelming need to keep them safe. His new little family. 

“Would you… my mother’s name was Marie-Cessette,” Porthos whispers, gazing down at the baby, enrapt by the way she moves in his arm, her hand untangling from her swaddle. He tucks her up again but she gets loose so he checks she’s warm enough, a hand against her back and neck where it’s best to tell, and lets her wriggle looser. “Marie-Cessette du Vallon. That’s the name she decided to own.”

“I would be honoured if you would like to share it with my daughter,” Elodie says, voice also soft and hushed, mirroring Porthos’s. 

“I would like it very much,” Porthos says. “I don’t want to impose.”

“Liar.”

Porthos grins, because that’s … yeah, he wants very much to impose, to be part of their lives, to sweep them up into his. Into his life, into his arms. He turns his head and gets a brush of Elodie’s lips and a warm smile before they both look back down at the baby. 

“Marie-Cessette,” Porthos tries out. Marie-Cessette looks up at him, eyes wide and wondering, old enough now to at least see him as blurs. It suits her. “What’s your name? I took my mother’s, du Vallon. I’m proud of it, of it being hers. Maybe your daughter would like to carry yours.”

“Dubois,” Elodie says. 

“Marie-Cessette Dubois,” Porthos says, bending closer so Marie-Cessette can hear her new name.

“Alright,” Elodie says. “It was her father’s name, I’d like her to have that. Mine and his and Marie-Cessette from you.”

Porthos beams, bursting with pride that she’s going to be his to raise, to teach, to love. Which is lucky because he already loves her too much to ever let go. He brought her into the world and she is grown strong and big and Lord, he’d already do anything for her. 

“So,” Athos says, plonking down on his other side. 

Elodie stretches, getting to her feet. Porthos wants to reach out, to pull her back, but she smiles at him and touches his cheek before moving away. Leaving Marie-Cessette with him, though. Excellent. Porthos sits back, stretching out his leg, still healing (still bloody healing). He tips his arms a little so Athos can see.

“Marie-Cessette Dubois du Vallon,” Porthos introduces. “Meet your grouchiest uncle, Athos de la grouch.”

“Thanks,” Athos says, nudging Porthos’s arm with his fist. He bends over the baby and then nods satisfaction.

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees. 

He doesn’t look at Athos, eyes instead finding Elodie and Sylvie and Constance, d’Artagnan working while they all look on, laughing at something together. 

“I kissed Flea,” Porthos tells Athos. 

“Mm?” Athos says, amused. Porthos glares at him. Then shrugs. 

“When she brought Grimaud in like a cat with a fucking mouse, all preening,” Porthos says. “Couldn’t help myself. I love that woman.”

Porthos finds Sylvie again, wondering what’s making his chest ache. 

“Did you work out what you want to fight for?” Athos asks, stretching his legs out, leaning back against the wall, shoulder to shoulder with Porthos in the sunshine. 

“This,” Porthos says, nodding to the work going on around them to rebuild the garrison. “Her,” he shifts Marie-Cessette so Athos can get a look again and they both get distracted for a minute, watching her suck at Porthos’s finger. Then Porthos gets distracted by Athos’s slack-jawed, open-mouthed amazement at Marie-Cessette. “You.”

“Me?” Athos asks, distracted still. 

“Mm. She’s hungry,” Porthos says, Marie-Cessette gumming stubbornly at his hand. He looks around and finds Elodie, waits for her to look their way, gets her attention. She nods but goes back to work. That’s fine, they’re happy a bit longer. “It’s coming, baby. Gonna get plenty of milk, I gave plenty of food to your Mama. She’s been eating really good and healthy. Plenty and plenty of milk for you.”

“How many children…” Athos starts, then stops. His eyes are trained on Sylvie. Porthos shrugs, weary, bundling Marie-Cessette a little closer, a little safer. 

“I… How many’ve we seen who grew up without anything? A roof, walls, anyone taking care of them. The queen can exclaim victory and celebrate her bright, well-fed boy as much as she cares to but there’s no… There isn’t an end, to this. War doesn’t end,” Porthos says. “I’ll serve. I know where they want me, I’m a soldier, I’m best at the front, right? Giving my life.”

“It’s worth more than that,” Athos murmurs. 

“I know,” Porthos says. “I’d give it, if I thought it’d keep her safe, you, Paris, everyone, everything. It’s worth fighting for goodness, yeah? Violence creates violence, but you can’t just lie down and let things happen, let things go by.”

“You don’t have to die for it,” Athos says. 

“I would, I will, what else can any of us do? Ride out and meet the fury of war head on and be glorious. Burn out in a blaze of a dying sun, with the wind at your back and your heart in your throat. That’s how you feel alive, Aramis says. Treville says. I bet you a year’s pay he half wishes he died that hero’s death which had his name on. Now he’s just left with the clean up, a war to struggle on through, politics. Plodding and plugging away, paper-work, dreary duty. I want to roar the Spanish into submission to make France safe and secure, go head-strong into battle, a warrior, lead my men and bring back victory. I’m not meant for safe or warm or quiet, what would I do, Athos? What am I to do?!”

“There is nothing romantic about war.“

“Slow, mucky, hard work, I know. I’d do it.”

“You’ve done it. Do it again, I’ll not stop you, I’ll cheer you on if you like, throw a parade to welcome you home,” Athos says. 

“No need to sound quite so sarcastic,” Porthos grumbles, shifting Marie-Cessette against his shoulder then, when she is still restless (his restlessness probably) he gets up and paces, bouncing her, back and forth before Athos. “And what then? If I go? If I leave her. It’ll be two, three years before I’m back, you know they’ll send me to the front. It’s months to get there and who knows what I’ll find, it’ll be years before I come back and she’ll be grown. It’s selfish to want to see her life. I never got to see it. And then I’ll go again, always gone, never home, until what? Death? I lie down in the mud and die? Do I leave her to make France safe? I can’t make France safe, I can’t make the world safe, there is no safety.”

“So find a way to build some,” Athos says, suddenly fervent, getting up and holding Porthos’s forearms. Porthos stills, surprised. “Porthos, you are more than just muscle, you have so much intelligence, so much kindness and gentleness and wisdom. You know Paris better than anyone. You think there is no way to find safety? You…”

Athos breathes hard. Marie-Cessette is between them or Porthos is sure Athos would hit him, hold him, kiss him. Something. Instead Athos presses a hand over his own heart then touches Porthos’s cheek, eyes boring into Porthos’s. 

“I’ve been terrified, lost in wine, in memory, pouring away in the rain,” Athos moves with his words, whole body in it. “I’ve been sliding away, piece by piece, and every time there you are. Here you come. Gathering me up, gathering me in, carrying me home. Being my home. Holding me safe. I’ve been held-safe all these years.”

“Oh,” Porthos says, clutching Marie-Cessette, staring at Athos wide-eyed. 

“You stupid idiot,” Athos mutters. “You don’t have to lay down your life to make your daughter safe. Just hold her.”

“And make sure there’s plenty of food for Elodie,” Porthos says, too stunned to make much sense. Athos wraps his arms so that Porthos is holding Marie-Cessette very close. 

“Hold her,” Athos repeats. “Be here. Help us.”

“How is it that she is not grizzling yet?” Elodie says, coming up and breaking into the intensity they’ve accidentally made. The air feels hot and frazzled between them. Athos is sweating and his hair is fly-away, curling around his face. “I leave it five minutes and she cries like her heart’s breaking.”

Marie-Cessette stirs, sensing her mother and her food, and does begin to set up a caterwauling. Porthos beams, distracted by her. 

“Oh listen to that, eh? Listen to those lungs!” Porthos says, proud as punch. He passes her across to Elodie when she holds out her arms. She sits on the bench and easy as you like opens her dress for Marie-Cessette. Porthos smiles. Athos shifts. “Oi, what problem’ve you got?”

“None,” Athos assures, quickly. Porthos can tell he’s holding back laughter. 

“Shut it,” Porthos says, and moves so he’s blocking the courtyard, turning away, giving Elodie some privacy. 

When she’s done she passes Marie-Cessette back to Porthos and he sits, her on his knee resting against his hand, and pats her back until she burps. He holds her in the crook of his arm, then. 

“My daughter,” he whispers, to Athos, who’s sat beside him again. 

“Yes,” Athos says. Porthos puffs out a breath. 

“I could fight for her, win all of France for her,” Porthos says. 

“Ok.”

“But I won’t,” Porthos says. “I’ll marry Elodie, so she can get the money if I die, and I’ll go back to the front. For now. Not all of France, but… I don’t want to retire a captain.”

“Oh?” Athos says, amused affront curling in his voice. 

“I deserve better,” Porthos says. “Gonna prove it. They’ll promote me sooner rather than later, this time. Did you hear all them things her majesty said, all those people backing me? I know half of them wouldn’t mind seeing me fail…”

“I may not have many titles or much influence or any power,” Athos says. “But I’ll back you, to see you win. All of France if you want it. A Colonel, a General, Général d’armée. A Commandant at the very least.”

“And you’ll hold her for me, while I can’t?”

“Always. Tell her all the stories. Getting stuck half in half out of tunnels, getting so drunk you fall in the Sein -”

“That was you!”

“- chasing down a grain thief on your own and returning to everyone’s stunned amazement with all that grain, trying to free Samara with nothing but a broken arrow head, have I given you enough grief over that one yet? I don’t think I have. I’ll tell it to Marie-Cessette. It will be titled ‘how not to mount a rescue’-”

“Oi!”

“-shooting melons off your friends’ heads, fighting in pub-brawls for the king, fighting all of the Spanish to capture their spy-master all on your own -”

“And winning!”

“-chucking your stupid pistol as Marcheaux’s stupid head, the worst culmination to a plan that saved my child,” Athos says, probably finishing by now. 

“Is that it? Not a very long list,” Porthos says. Athos’s lips twitch. “Don’t really tell her the drunk ones. Or about falling in the Sien.”

“I thought that was me?” Athos says.

“You can tell her that one. Just not about the time it was me,” Porthos says. Marie-Cessette’s gone to sleep, lulled by Athos’s daft promise of dafter stories. “You’ll watch over her?”

“Yes.”

“From your estate. You’re leaving Paris,” Porthos says. 

“Sylvie wishes to stay,” Athos says, murmuring again, eyes finding Sylvie. “Set up the printing house, try and help people read and write.”

“Give ‘em copies of Montaigne,” Porthos says, grinning. 

“Porthos,” Athos chides. Porthos laughs and Athos sighs, closing his eyes. “Don’t die, du Vallon.”

“Can’t promise.”

“Don’t die.”

“I won’t.”

“Come back, build a home with me, with Sylvie and Elodie and our children, for our children,” Athos says. 

“I’ll come back.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“Just today, then,” Porthos says. 

“Just today.”

Elodie glances their way and laughs, poking Sylvie to get her attention. Porthos is a little embarrassed, Athos humming in contentment and very close. Sylvie just laughs too and goes back to her work. 

* * *

Porthos and Elodie marry quietly, just Athos and Sylvie there with the priest. Porthos had wanted to invite the others but Elodie had gently suggested that they be a little untoward and include Athos and Sylvie, so it’s a little less like a marriage ceremony. Or a little more. Legally he and Elodie are married, she will receive his pension if he dies, she and Marie-Cessette are seen to. In his eyes, and, he is sure, in the eyes of God, the four of them are knit together in whichever ways they see fit, whatever they grow into. Whatever they wish. Athos makes a speech about love as they wend their way homeward, back to Porthos’s house (the house he owns, he still can’t quite believe it). 

Porthos rides out the next day, so early Athos cannot be dragged from bed for love nor money. Sylvie and Elodie see him off, Marie-Cessette asleep in Sylvie’s arms so when he bends to kiss her small hand he shifts a little to the left and kisses Sylvie’s hand, too. She laughs at him but her eyes are wide with consternation and fear. Elodie is sure and unafraid, looking at him like he has all the answers, like he cannot die. She knows he can, she’s experienced it before. She knows he’s not invincible. She makes him feel it anyway. And Athos does come down afterall, bedraggled with sleep, hair a mess, grouchy and scratchy with beard. He just looks at Porthos then shrugs, pushing gently between Sylvie and Elodie, and punches Porthos’s shoulder. 

“Good luck, du Vallon,” Athos says, like the first time he ever sent Porthos off on a mission, way back when Porthos was new and Athos half-hated him because he was convinced Porthos had cheated him at cards (Porthos had) and on top of that pick-pocketed him of the little he had left after (Porthos had done that too). 

“I gave it all back,” Porthos grumbles, and Athos laughs, obviously he had been thinking of that mission, too. And, Porthos thinks, I came back alive. Have done every time since. How long is his luck? 

The door is stood open, Porthos had been half way through it when his household had come and held him up with goodbyes. Out in the street the prince de Condé’s men draw up by Mercredi and Henri swings out of the saddle, coming bounding up the steps into the hallway to crush in with the rest of them. He slings an arm around Porthos’s shoulders and pries him away from his child and the people he loves. His exuberance and his men’s good-cheer pushes Porthos up into his saddle and he nudges Mercredi forwards. He’ll ride with Henri the few miles until Henri heads back to his own lands, and he’ll take some of Henri’s men, including poor Mosqueton, to the front with him.

They pass the garrison, still unfinished, and d’Artagnan and Constance are there working. Ostensibly working, they are really there, with Serge and what’s left of the cadets, to see him off. Him and Brujon, who joins them as they pass, uncertain on his big war horse. Porthos clicks his tongue to Mercredi and they pause, waiting for Brujon to catch up, riding at his side and telling him ribald stories and silly jokes until he’s laughing and blushing and horrified and disbelieving. The men around them join in, one-upping each other. They ride under the gates and Porthos recognises their bloody regent sat up there, dressed as a common soldier, recognises Pepin sturdy at his side, taking her duty to guard him very seriously. She salutes Porthos and he tips her his hat. Treville calls down to them to look after their weapons and Porthos grins. He still has Treville’s sword strapped to his side, he’ll take good care of it. Get it plenty bloody as he goes but always clean it. 

They’re riding to war but, for now, it feels like victory. For now they are all healthy and whole, well fed, in good spirits. For now morning is just getting started and for now, at least, everything feels well. Porthos remembers Julian of Norwich, the only bit of scripture Athos ever had any real patience for: All shall be well, all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well. 

**the end**

  
  



End file.
